Of Little Brothers
by BlackBandit111
Summary: A series of oneshots with angst, fluff, and general shenanigans the musketeers manage to get into. Lots of h/c. Mostly bromance; taking prompts! Chapter 24: It's been a long week, and he seriously can't take the looks they're giving him. So what does he do? He screams. Loudly.
1. Sleight of Hand tag

**_Disclaimer: Nope. Dumas owns the men, BBC owns the characterization. I DO SO LOVE SUGGESTIONS. Please. Gimme em._**

**_Enjoy the read!_**

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The first thing he'd thought he'd feel was unmitigated relief.

Of course, he was wrong.

Exhaustion that d'Artagnan hadn't been aware he carried suddenly crashed over his shoulder, like a tidal wave meaning to drown him. Every ache and injury in his body was instantaneously determined to make itself known, throbbing in time with d'Artagnan's heartbeat, which filled his ears with white noise and blocked out the words of his companions. _Ban-dum. Ban-dum. Ban-dum._

Swallowing dryly and realizing then just how much his throat hurt, d'Artagnan tried to blink the blurriness from his eyes; instead of banishing it, it only grew. The inside of his ears hurt terribly and his head was suddenly all too happy to beat to the base of a drum. The world decided in that moment to start swaying violently, sending d'Artagnan nearly to the ground as he tried desperately to steady himself; the rocking was off-setting, and d'Artagnan's soles burned as he shuffled over the rocks to get his footing back.

Distantly he was aware, somewhere in the back of his mind, that his friends were calling for him. Did they sound concerned? D'Artagnan couldn't tell. He just knew that his stomach was tossing and the world was rocking and that he was really, really sore.

His knees were wobbly and he finally couldn't keep up with the rocking anymore as the pace of it sped up. Feeling his legs buckle beneath him and bracing for the inevitable, painful acquaintance he'd make with the stone, he shut his eyes tight-

only to find himself being drawn gently to a firm chest, his face pressed against coarse fabric. Although slightly stifling, it was more comforting than anything, and he leaned into the embrace willingly. The scent hanging around him was of Porthos, and without taking his face from the jacket, he murmured, "P'rthos." It wasn't a prayer nor a question, just a simple acknowledgement that d'Artagnan knew where he was and with whom.

A vibration under his cheek. "Aye, d'Artagnan. I have you."

And if Porthos sounded uncharacteristically tender, d'Artagnan was too exhausted to really note it.

"Let me...check...over...him...garrison...Treville…done." It sounded distorted and strange to the Gascon's ears, and he found that couldn't care much at the moment about anything. Porthos was holding him up and he was safe, so what else did he have to worry about? His body felt numb. He couldn't feel his fingers. Was he standing?

No, Porthos was holding him up. Why? Had he fallen?

Suddenly alarmed, he thrashed, and heard a stressed exclamation from above him. "D'Artagnan! Easy, lad, easy!"

And no one called him lad but Porthos, and suddenly the reality of the situation slammed into him like a brick wall as his body once again forcibly reminded him how injured he really was. Unable to contain a strangled moan, d'Artagnan sagged back into his friend's arms, not sure what was burning but knowing something had to be because he was in so much pain-

And then another voice whispering in his ear, and a hand in his hair. "Shh, d'Artagnan. It's alright. You are safe."

An image of himself tied down to gunpowder, Vadim leering at him rose, unbidden, to his mind's eye and he subconsciously let out a small, distressed noise. Instantly ashamed of himself for showing such weakness in front of men he so respected, but he found that it didn't really matter at the moment.

"It's alright, d'Artagnan," came to him again. Softly. A hand slided through his hair soothingly. "Rest."

And so he did.

**...**

Aramis had a certain sense about him- a sort of instinct- when it came to his friends and injuries. And he supposed that when it began to scream at him he should have listened instead of carefully inspecting Athos and Porthos discreetly then dismissing it, but truly, he had been elated that the mission was finally over and d'Artagnan could come home.

Nope.

Actually, his real mission had just begun.

Because when d'Artagnan's face suddenly- far, far too suddenly- paled until it was positively ashen, Aramis knew, _knew_ that he had been a blind fool to disregard that instinct. D'Artagnan began to sway dangerously, his eyes darting around to things that weren't there. He spread his arms, as if to steady himself, and took stumbling steps to the right and left, like he was rocking with the earth.

And Aramis knew that he really, really, _really_ shouldn't have ignored that instinct.

Observing keenly that d'Artagnan's knees were starting to tremble, he barked at Porthos, who was nearest: "Porthos! Catch him!"

The larger man, immediately knowing who Aramis was talking about, lunged, supporting d'Artagnan and pulling him to his chest as the young man crumpled. Porthos cupped the back of d'Artagnan's head in the palm of his hand so that it wasn't rolling, pressing d'Artagnan's pain filled face into his jacket. D'Artagnan's limbs lost some of their tenseness at this, relaxing further into Porthos's arms.

They hadn't known this young man long- three months, since the middle of winter to the start of spring- but he had managed to bury himself deep into their hearts and refused to let go. Aramis felt concern rising too quickly in his throat, and it took too much effort for him to force it back down to the depths from which it came.

He had to concentrate.

He only barely heard d'Artagnan whisper something to Porthos, who answered back with a calm but still worry laced, "Aye, d'Artagnan. I have you."

D'Artagnan fell frighteningly silent, and Aramis came forward to inspect his wounds. Exhaustion was one, plain and simple, but as Aramis gently prodded at d'Artagnan's body he found that one shoulder was terribly inflamed with what Aramis predicted was a dislocation; moving down, he felt along the young man's ribs, which shifted under his gentle pressure. D'Artagnan let out a breathless moan. Broken, then, perhaps badly bruised.

Moving down d'Artagnan's arms, he felt nothing amiss there and left them alone. "I can't look him over completely now," Aramis said to his companions, whose faces were coated in anxiousness. "He's got a few broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder, and many bumps and bruises, but I think he'll be okay."

"M'hff." D'Artagnan's muffled voice spoke for the first time, and Porthos gently drew d'Artagnan's face from his coat. Bleary eyed, d'Artagnan glanced around a few moments and then, his face growing alarmed, began to struggle.

"D'Artagnan!" Porthos cried as he tried to maintain his grip on all of d'Artagnan's gangly limbs, "easy, lad, easy!"

D'Artagnan stilled, panting, his eyes too bright. Aramis sighed and palmed his forehead, already dreading the heat that he found there.

"And he's a fever that's climbing. I can't treat him here."

"Mff…" D'Artagnan groaned incoherently, and it was then Aramis spotted the gleam of blood against their friend's temple. Lithe fingers softly felt at it, and d'Artagnan jerked his head away when he reached a gash on the crown of his head. There was no bump.

"And...most likely a concussion," Aramis sighed, and Athos let out a stressed breath between his lips.

"'Mis...'Thos…" D'Artagnan whimpered, almost too quietly to be heard, and Athos shushed him.

"Shh, d'Artagnan." Athos ran delicate, cautious fingers through the Gascon's hair, and he settled. "Rest."

D'Artagnan blinked at them for a couple moments more, his eyes clouding before they shut completely, long dark lashes laying against pale cheekbones.

They all let out simultaneous exhales of relief. "Porthos, we need you to carry him," Aramis said as he bundled d'Artagnan, who had begun to quiver a little while back, into his jacket which was shrugged off. "Athos, you should probably report to Treville about the mission being completed."

"And yourself?" Athos queried, more to find out where he's headed to see to d'Artagnan than out of genuine curiosity. Aramis knew this.

"We'll go to the Bonacieux house. I'm sure Madame Bonacieux is concerned for her lodger."

And, with concern festering deep in their hearts, they parted ways.

**...**

When d'Artagnan awoke, the first thing he was aware of was that everything hurt. Everywhere.

"Is he awake? I thought he'd stay asleep for this part."

"At least we've wrapped his ribs and taken care of his lacerated wrists. What do you think did that?"

"No idea, but now all we have to do is tend to his feet."

"Hush, both of you. He is coming 'round."

When he tentatively opened his eyes, he found the light at a suitable level, only causing mild stabbing to lance through his head. Blinking the sleep away, he muttered drowsily, "whuss' goin' on?"

Hesitation. "D'Artagnan, I wish I could put you back under," Aramis speaking, then, "but I'm afraid if I do, you won't awaken again. You have a nasty concussion, especially from the amount of blood we'd found at the hideaway. I was wishing you'd remain asleep for this part, and so I am sorry. It is going to be quite painful."

D'Artagnan, who was still extremely groggy and very much confused, made a small noise. Athos's face, when it came into his vision, was hard, but sympathy softened it at the edges. "Take it easy, d'Artagnan," he instructed first, and it was only then d'Artagnan realized he had been holding his breath, "and calm down."

He waited a few beats for d'Artagnan to completely relax against the covers again, when he became dimly aware he was only in his smalls. Flushing in shame, d'Artagnan avoided his friend's knowing gazes. Athos continued like he hadn't noticed, which d'Artagnan was grateful for. "We have to cut the bottoms of your boots off your feet. They've melted on. I take it you were close to the blast when it happened?"

It was true; the soles of his boots had been worn down and scuffed at anyway, and the blast had completely torn through them at places and managed to scorch the pads of his feet. He nodded his understanding. "It's going to hurt, lad," Porthos said quietly, compassion lighting his dark eyes.

D'Artagnan nodded, taking a deep breath and fisting in the covers. "Do it," he commanded wearily.

Aramis needed no further permission, cutting and peeling the deformed pieces of leather from d'Artagnan's skin. The Gascon choked back sobs, his eyes burning with the force of retaining his tears. He would not cry, he told himself angrily; not in front of these men.

It was Athos who truly broke him, d'Artagnan would say later. He could handle the pain and the burns and the aches and the exhaustion all on his own, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out while his eyes were firmly squeezed shut, but when the first brushes of fingertips through his hair started, he lost his resolve. He began to sob in earnest, huge things that shook his frame and threatened to interfere with Aramis's careful work had Porthos not pinned his legs to the bed to keep them still.

D'Artagnan felt the bed dip near his side, felt Athos's warm hand as it slowly threaded through his sweat slicked hair. It was then he became aware of just how hot and uncomfortable he was, feeling icky and achy and all together not well, and he realized he had a fever.

"It's alright, d'Artagnan," Athos said, his face kind and his eyes tender. "Just try to sleep. Close your eyes."

And despite himself, despite all the pain in his body, he obeyed, and found himself whisked away.

**...**

"Is he out?" Aramis asked absently as he finished pulling the last bits of the boot from d'Artagnan's foot, hands steady and voice deceptively light.

Athos was not a man who needed touch, was never a man to first extend the offer, but he had found that he could not let d'Artagnan endure it alone. No, he hadn't expected the tears, but had not been as shocked as he thought he'd be. D'Artagnan was innocent, only just leaving boyhood, and there was no shame in tears of pain he had no doubt pushed away since his father's death.

There was no judgement in the faces of his closest friends.

Aramis finished with a relieved sigh, saying, "now he can rest in peace. I'm confident we've caught the infection before it could fester, though we should keep an eye on it for the next couple of days. Seeing as he has a concussion, we'll need to wake him up for the next few hours."

Athos nodded. "I'll take first watch."

It was a testament to how strong their friendship that Aramis and Porthos didn't even try to disagree.

D'Artagnan's fever gave him nightmares throughout the night. Sometimes he called for his father in tones that threatened to break his friend's hearts; sometimes he'd call for them. Mostly, he muttered "please, no".

His fever broke around midnight, according to the candlemark, and d'Artagnan's dark orbs found Athos's own. "'Thos?" He slurred groggily, reaching out blindly. Athos caught his hand and rubbed his thumb on the back of it.

"Sh, d'Artagnan. You're all right. Sleep."

And d'Artagnan, safe in the knowledge that he was watched out, for, slipped into slumber once again. Athos, in a rare form of tenderness, kissed d'Artagnan's forehead.

"Sleep and be comforted, little brother. I shall not fail you."

_Not like Thomas._

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**_That was my first Musketeers fanfiction. How's the characterization? As always I love reviews and hearing your thoughts, constructive criticism is my friend, and thanks for reading!_**


	2. Rain May Fall and Wind May Blow

_Oh. My. God. You people- I mean- the amount of feedback I've gotten for the just THE ONE CHAPTER, that wasn't even over 3,000 words, is just absolutely amazing. You guys are just so supportive and amazing (and really know how to make someone welcome in your fandom!) As an ABSURDLY ASTOUNDED thank you, here's another chapter! YAY FOR MUSKETEER SNUGGLING, WHICH IS MY WEAKNESS-_

_Also, THANK YOU DEFINE INCOMPETENT, for your suggestion! That one would have been out first, but I wrote this this morning, and I'll get kicking on it ASAP!_

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It was discovered quite by accident, really, but once it had been brought to light, the Inseparables had become determined to do something about it. They were on a mission of admittedly little importance, Treville wanting them out of the garrison (claiming with adamancy that there was only so much of the four of them he could handle) and so there they were, on horseback, riding in the pouring rain.

The musketeers were used to such conditions on missions, as the weather was one of those uncontrollable factors that one could only plan the best for, but the truly terrible thing was that the rain wasn't _cold_.

Normally, this would be a blessing, as the only thing condition worse than snow was rain, which soaked deeply and managed to wriggle into every single piece of spare clothing in their packs. But this rain, no; this rain was humid and stifling in accordance to the uncharacteristically hot temperature of the last week, and the falling drops brought no relief. It only caused the already sweat slicked clothing to stick to their overheated bodies, which made them even more miserable.

Aramis tipped his hat to the side, effectively emptying the water that had gathered in it's folds, straightening again with a smile. "Well," he said, too cheerfully to be genuine, "this is a fun time, isn't it?"

Athos only glared at his younger friend, who gave him a cheeky grin in response. Porthos saw this and couldn't help his smirk. "Oh come now, Athos; at least it's not snow."

"Snow would be a welcome thing right now, if it were to cool us off," he mumbled darkly, casting his dour gaze to all three of his companions.

D'Artagnan, who was not used to this sort of weather had no small amount of complaints, but he was silent and still. Raising an eyebrow, Porthos asked good naturedly, "well, lad, what about you?"

D'Artagnan, from where he was slumped in the saddle, straightened abruptly as Porthos addressed him, eyes darting around. Blinking and rubbing at them with his knuckles, he said apologetically, "sorry, Porthos; what was that?"

Porthos frowned and Aramis turned in the seat. "What's gotten into you? Is it Athos' sour mood? Is it contagious?" For good measure, he steered his horse away from his two companions and towards Aramis, whose eyes were twinkling.

"No, Porthos, I think that the bad mood must be spread through contact, actually," Aramis said lightly, eyeing them both. "Have you two been-"

D'Artagnan made little retching sounds in the back of his throat, face twisting. "Ew, Aramis."

Aramis smirked. "Get your mind out of the gutter, d'Artagnan. I meant that perhaps you two had managed to start a good case of it when you were sparring the other day. Unless you do a different kind of-"

"Aramis!" D'Artagnan shouted, a blush rising to his cheeks.

Porthos downright choked, dipping his head to hide his beaming grin; d'Artagnan glared halfheartedly at his friends, but the hints of a smile were working their way onto his face; Aramis merely raised an eyebrow and Athos graced them all with his spectacular Look, which managed to quiet them all in a matter of seconds.

"We should find an inn," He called over the torrential rain, which had picked up in the last few minutes and now whipped painfully at their exposed skin. "It'll only get worse, by the looks of it, and it's going to be dark soon anyway."

D'Artagnan's good mood instantly vanished, his smile falling and leaving his face gaunt. "No, I think we should continue on," he said neutrally, but his friends knew him well enough to hear the panic barely concealed beneath. "We're almost there, anyway."

Porthos huffed. "Lad, this rain will go on all night, and the village will still be there tomorrow. No reason to rush."

D'Artagnan shook his head, droplets of water flying out of his drenched and limp hair. "I really think we should get there as soon as we can," he insisted, and Aramis eyed him cautiously.

"I believe that there will be not much of a difference in our mission's completion if we are delayed by a few hours," he said carefully, watching as d'Artagnan slumped, his shoulders hunching. "Besides, Treville said himself: this mission isn't one of absolute importance. I think a little dallying and a warm bed will do us some good."

D'Artagnan was not a man to accept defeat easily, though, even when the odds were against him, so he pressed on. "Are you sure-"

"Enough!" Athos's bark was sharp enough to gain everyone's attention. "Enough, d'Artagnan. We are stopping at an inn, and this is final." He falls silent again, glower in place as he glares at them from under the hem of his hat, which is pulled low over his face to mostly hide his expression.

D'Artagnan shrunk at the rebuke, curling in on himself and undeniably _making himself smaller,_ and Aramis felt concern grow in his heart. Why? This wasn't like him at all, and from the look Porthos was sending him over d'Artagnan's head, Porthos knew it, too.

_Maybe it's the rain,_ Aramis reasoned. _It's got everyone out of sorts today_.

And since he didn't have any other idea why Athos could be in such a foul mood without prompt and why d'Artagnan was acting so strange, he accepted the weather as the stressor.

He was wrong.

When the reached the inn and gave the reins of their horses to the stable boys, d'Artagnan (who had been more silent that Aramis had ever seen him) began to _shake_. Badly. His hands trembled and his eyes were wide, the warm brown eyes distant and vaguely panicked. Frantic.

Frightened.

Aramis tried to crop it up as the rain making their friend chilled, but even as he thought this, he knew it could not be true. The rain was warm and the weather was humid and they were hot and miserable, and unless d'Artagnan had suddenly managed to grow icy cold- so cold he was shivering now- Aramis knew it was something else.

"Do you have two rooms available?" He asked as Porthos set down the sopping wet bags at their feet, and the (very, very attractive) young woman blushed, twisting her blonde hair around her fingers. A nervous habit, Aramis deduced. She stuttered, "I- I apologise, Monsieurs, but I have but one room with a king sized bed. Perhaps you would be interested in taking that one?"

Aramis looked to Porthos, who seemed entirely unperturbed by the idea of sleeping in a single bed. Then he turned to d'Artagnan, who was looking (extremely too hopefully, in Aramis's opinion) towards the door, like this was an escape route. Athos was as unreadable as ever, but Aramis knew for a fact that, should things come down to it, he would not hesitate to share a bed with them and would probably shout at d'Artagnan if he suggested they leave (which the young Gascon looked like he was considering seriously).

Sharing a bed with each other was not a daunting idea- not really. They'd slept next to each other and on top of each other on missions, for warmth and protection and sometimes to just know that people were there, and an inn having only one bed in a room wasn't an uncommon occurrence. It happened to them more often than it probably should have, but it was their luck and, to be honest, it wasn't wholly terrible. Sure, Porthos snored and Athos kept a dagger under the pillow and Aramis was told that he loved to tangle his limbs in every else's, but it kept the nightmares at bay and made him feel less alone in the world.

"We'll take it," he said smoothly, throwing in The Stare for good measure and a charming grin, and the girl nearly swooned as she nodded and gave them directions. Porthos said nothing (but was ooking quite smug, if Aramis was honest with himself) as he lugged the waterlogged packs up the stairs and to the room.

D'Artagnan's face was ashen, and he made his way up to the room with heavy footfalls. The air around him was thick with something akin to hopelessness.

They hastily dug up a spare change of (thankfully, amazingly, impossibly dry) clothes from the bottom of their packs, eager to get out of their wet garments. The air was cooler now that the storm was really setting it; from the neighbouring rooms, they could hear the sounds of the shutters slamming against the frames of the windows, and the wind howled as the whole inn shook.

There was a bright flash of a brilliant streak of lightning, and following a few seconds after was thunder, roaring loudly and rearing it's head.

D'Artagnan jumped into Porthos, sending them both against the wall with the force of his alarm. "Whoa, lad, it's alright!" Porthos said as he helped straighten a panting and shaking d'Artagnan. "Not afraid of a little thunder, are we?" He teased, and d'Artagnan (too quickly) shook his head, forcing a laugh.

"N-no, of course not," he denied, but it was obvious to his companions he was lying through his teeth, "I'm fine. I just didn't expect it, is all."

Porthos raised an eyebrow, saying, unconvinced, "If you say so…"

The young Gascon nodded firmly, swallowing convulsively and running a hand through his hair. There was another flash of lightning and another growl of thunder, and d'Artagnan's flinch only proved Aramis's budding suspicions.

Aramis knew all too well that d'Artagnan was stubborn and prideful much in the same way as Athos was, and that the situation required all too delicate maneuvering for it to turn out the way he wanted. Yawning and stretching grandly, Aramis sent Porthos a look as he flopped onto the bed, relishing in warm covers.

"I'm exhausted," he said, managing to make eye contact with Athos, whose grim annoyance had faded into something much more sympathetic and less gruff, "and we need to be on the road tomorrow. Come on, then."

And his two friends needed no more prompting, Athos shucking his shoes at the foot of the bed before climbing in. Aramis knew by memory that Athos had already slid his knife under his pillow for reassurance, and felt a little lighter at heart.

Porthos climbed in on his left, Athos on his right, and Aramis made himself comfortable with his back to Athos's, facing Porthos. After a moment of silence he looked up at d'Artagnan, who was fidgeting nervously at the end of the bed, wringing his hands together.

He bit his lip and tugged a little at his hair, which Aramis had learned was one of d'Artagnan's tells. It was how he beat him in poker. "Well, come on lad," Porthos said from where he was laying on his back, "climb in. We've got an early start tomorrow, like Aramis said."

D'Artagnan shuffled his feet, eyes firmly studying the ground. "I'll...I'll just sleep on the floor," he mumbled to his feet. "I wouldn't want to intrude, and the bed-"

"I'm not letting you sleep on the floor," Athos barked lowly, and d'Artagnan flinched a little as another roll of thunder shook the inn. "I don't want to have to listen to your complaints tomorrow. Come on, before I make you."

The threat sounded serious enough, Athos's voice tinged with the tone he used when commanding troops, and d'Artagnan, after another moment of hesitation, obliged, laying down on his side next to Porthos, his back to them. Aramis and Porthos had full heartedly expected this, though, and the bulkier musketeer- with a grace that was meant for battle- grasped d'Artagnan about the waist, ignored the young man's protests, and flipped him so he was firmly between Aramis and himself.

D'Artagnan struggled a little, protesting and kicking, but Aramis (as was his custom) tangled his legs in d'Artagnan's, stopping their movements. Porthos's arm was still wrapped around d'Artagnan's waist, and he pulled d'Artagnan a little closer, so that he was resting against Porthos's broad chest.

D'Artagnan huffed, warm chocolate eyes almost level with Aramis's own as they looked up at him. "Thanks," he murmured, subconsciously burrowing into the heat of the covers, and it was then Aramis noticed the chill bumps on d'Artagnan's arms. The night was downright cold, now, the rain having cooled off the ground and the air faster than it should have been able to.

"Of course. Get some sleep." And Aramis knew that, sandwiched between his and Porthos's bodies, d'Artagnan might.

**...**

He was wrong. Again.

When he cracked his eyes open, the storm was still raging strong, and for a split second he didn't know what had woken him until an arm landed across his chest. Sitting up and feeling Athos stir automatically at the shift, Porthos too was upright, turning so they faced their youngest companion, who was thrashing.

"N-no," he choked, hands outstretched and grasping for something that wasn't there, "please, please- no. Father, no. Don't- don't- don't go, please-"

Aramis's eyes widened as Porthos sucked in a surprised breath. Shit.

"Nightmares," Athos muttered, more to himself than his companions, catching one of d'Artagnan's flailing arms. Another crack of thunder and a flash of lightning illuminated the room, showing them d'Artagnan's face twisted in pain and fear as he flinched away from the sound, whimpering softly.

Shit.

"And thunder," he said quietly, and Athos cupped a hand on d'Artagnan's cheek.

"D'Artagnan," he called, loud enough to be heard over the beating of the rain on the sides of the inn, which was drowning out anything else, "d'Artagnan, wake up. You're safe." He paused, and when a tear slipped out from d'Artagnan's closed eyes and rolled down his opposite cheek, Athos had seen enough of this. "D'Artagnan!"

Their young friend's eyes flew open and he sat up abruptly, unmitigated panic reflecting in his eyes. Aramis caught the hands that fisted in his nightshirt and warmed the cold, numb fingers with his own. D'Artagnan breathed heavily for a moment, still not fully aware of his surroundings, before blinking rapidly and extracting his hands from Aramis's. Aramis let him go willingly, watching him with sympathetic eyes.

"M'sorry," the Gascon murmured, avoiding their eyes.

Porthos's voice was soft when he spoke. "Whatever for, lad?"

D'Artagnan gave a small shrug, sucking in a shaky breath. "I...I know you all probably think I'm a coward and I'm sorry for waking you and I knew it would happen because of the storm that's why I tried to sleep on the floor but then you guys and I knew I shouldn't have but I did and I would understand if you thought I wasn't fit to be a musketeer and go on missions with you anymore-"

It came spilling out like a wave, d'Artagnan's eyes wide and swimming with tears that he refused to let fall. He couldn't seem to stop the flow of words from his mouth and some of the insecurities Aramis were hearing were just plain ridiculous.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said, and d'Artagnan's jaws snapped shut with an audible clink. "Mon Dieu, what are you talking about?"

D'Artagnan took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Aramis eyed Athos appreciatively. "I...You all probably think I'm a coward because-"

"Now stop right there," Athos said sternly, and d'Artagnan did so, eyes flickering up to Athos's face tentatively, "why are you allowed to presume what we think of you?" D'Artagnan lowered his eyes in shame, and Athos softened. "D'Artagnan, we do not think you are a coward. There is no shame in nightmares."

D'Artagnan's gaze darted from Athos, to Aramis and then to Porthos, like he wasn't sure if they all believed that. Porthos nodded. "Aye, lad. We all have a fair share. It comes with the job."

Aramis nodded encouragingly and this seemed to make their young friend feel slightly better. Athos took a deep breath, voice firm but not unkind. "Now, as for this ridiculous notion of yours that we aren't going to take you on any more missions, dismiss it. Right this moment. I don't know what spins around in that head of yours, but obviously whatever it is it's more idiotic than normal." D'Artagnan took another shaky breath, but Aramis sensed that this time it was out of relief.

Athos ran a hand through his hair. "As for this...storm-" D'Artagnan flinched at the mention of it and they faithfully ignored it, "there is nothing to be ashamed of if you are afraid, d'Artagnan. Everyone is afraid."

"I'm sorry I'm not brave," d'Artagnan murmured, and Athos chuckled quietly.

"What makes us brave is not that fact that we are not afraid, d'Artagnan," he said. "What makes us brave is the ability to acknowledge our fear and overcome it."  
Silence descended as they allowed d'Artagnan to digest these words. Aramis's curiosity finally got the better of him, and he asked,"Excuse my prying, d'Artagnan, but why thunder? We've fired shots around you before and those do not seem to bother you at all."

D'Artagnan's face once again paled. "W-well," he said, running a hand through his hair, "my father- the- the night he died it was raining, and thundering, and I insisted we stop for the night at the inn so he could rest. If we- if he- if we hadn't been there and had kept riding, he'd still be alive." D'Artagnan sounded tearful, now, and they were kept only at bay by his sheer strength of will. "It's- it's my fault."

"No," Aramis said sharply. "It is not. Do not ever think that, d'Artagnan. The only blame is on Gaudet, and he is now dead."

"Pushing up daisies," Porthos agreed, and there was peace for about three seconds before they all broke down laughing, d'Artagnan the hardest. He wiped his eyes and smiled at them gratefully, but when he spoke his voice was weary.

"Thanks. I don't- uh- I usually can't get to sleep again after my nightmares, so I'll just get-"

"Oh no you don't," Porthos said, grabbing him and pushing his down and against Porthos's chest again.

D'Artagnan made a small sound, saying, "but Porthos, I never sleep again. I'll just fidget and take up space and keep you all-"

"D'Artagnan," Athos said, voice filled with tiredness as he lay against Aramis's back again, "I know little brothers are meant to be annoying, but do us all a favor and _be quiet."_

Silence as everyone settled down again, and Aramis's eyes were just drifting closed when he heard d'Artagnan whisper into the darkness something that sounded like a thank you. Opening his eyes again and watching d'Artagnan's face, which was now lax in slumber, Aramis allowed himself a small smile as he once again dozed, realizing, for the first time, that the storm had long since stopped.

* * *

_AHN I TOLD YOU SNUGGLY MUSKETEERS WERE MY WEAKNESS AHNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNn_

_Anyways! Thanks again for such amazing feedback, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I love reviews! _

_**whispering** and suggestions..._


	3. Infallible Faith in Friends

_Hello there to all of you who've just joined the party! Again, the amount of feedback I've gotten...you guys are just astounding. Really. You make me smile :)_

_This was requested by Define Incompetent- I'm sorry that this isn't longer, but there was only so long I could carry it without it becoming all of Aramis's thoughts throughout the whole episode. Hope you enjoy it!_

_Also, a face I recognize! Hello, IWillNeverStopFangirling! What's up? Haven't seen you in a while. Thanks for your reviews to A Learning Experience and this, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!_

* * *

Aramis had had infallible faith in Marsac since the time he'd saved him back in Savoy, and he felt that he always would to some degree. But now...the first inklings of doubt were trickling in.

It wasn't just because of Marsac's (admittedly) questionable behavior, but now, sitting in front of a pale and injured d'Artagnan, Aramis really began to think seriously about it. Marsac was pointing a lot of fingers at a lot of people all at once, and Aramis was having trouble keeping up with it all. He didn't really understand all of what was going on, but what he did understand was that Marsac, not fifteen minutes ago, had tried to take off their young friend's head.

It was a little of both their faults, really. Marsac shouldn't have taunted d'Artagnan, who'd always been hotheaded, but d'Artagnan should not have reacted. In return, Marsac should not have struck out the way he did.

Aramis couldn't help but find little fault in d'Artagnan, though, as he was sat in front of him and biting his lip so hard it was drawing blood to stay silent. Aramis was concentrating on sewing the gash by d'Artagnan's collarbone shut, but it was insistently weeping blood again despite the pull of the thread on the skin, and he swiped at it with the stained rag again.

D'Artagnan let out a muffled grunt, and Aramis looked up for a moment apologetically. "I'm almost done," he assured, pulling a couple more stitches before tying off the knot completely and wiping his needle. Grabbing some gauze and folding it into a square, he pressed it firmly to d'Artagnan's wound (who couldn't withhold his small, pained hiss) and made sure it would stick there.

"Good as new," he said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and d'Artagnan's hair fell into his face as he pulled on his shirt again. Aramis ducked his head, about to move away when a hand on his arm stopped him. Turning back, he found d'Artagnan's warm, forgiving gaze on his own.

"It isn't your fault, Aramis," he said, and Aramis sighed, an unbelieving smile on his face. Did his friend know him so well that he could see his thoughts so clearly?

"I didn't believe it was, d'Artagnan," he said coolly, a pool of guilt forming in his gut.

D'Artagnan appeared unconvinced but let it drop, standing from his position. Aramis saw the concealed wince as d'Artagnan pulled on his wound.

Replaying it back in his mind, Aramis could see how Marsac could lash out like he had, but it still...made something bubble uneasily in Aramis's chest.

_"You're not a musketeer." Marsac's smug, venom filled tone._

_"Neither are you." D'Artagnan's wit laced voice._

Running a hand over his face and turning to look at Athos, who only met his gaze evenly, Aramis shook his head and sent up a quick prayer that things had not turned out much worse.

_Marsac lunged forward, dagger in hand, brushing so close to d'Artagnan's neck that it grazed it; d'Artagnan jumped, causing the blade to slash at the tan skin at the Gascon's collarbone instead of the soft skin of his throat-_

_Athos jumping forward and shoving d'Artagnan backwards as he pinned Marsac back to the pillar-_

_d'Artagnan's startled face as he pressed a hand to his collarbone only for it to come back bloody-_

"Aramis! Come over here, we need to discuss the plan," Porthos called, and Aramis shook his head of his thoughts.

Marsac used to be a musketeer. He was a good man. There wasn't any reason to suspect anything at all.

But even as Porthos clapped him on the shoulder and Athos gave him that piercing, knowing look, d'Artagnan's stricken face filled his mind's eye and, once again, there was a seed of doubt.

He forcibly pushed it away and down to depths in his heart where he refused to look.

* * *

_Okey dokey! Next up is Candy Cakes suggestion for hypothermia-d'Artagnan, and it's slowly turning into a Louis-appreciates-d'Artagnan's-stubbornness sort of a chapter, but oh well. Concept is the same. I still love suggestions, I will do my best do take 'em all, and thanks for reading! Leave me a comment on your thoughts!_

_(You guys really love to whump d'Artagnan, huh? That's okay. Me too.) _


	4. The Cold Never Bothered- Well, Actually

_Hello there everyone! Wow. You guys have been holding back on me! I LOVE all the ideas and I'm gonna get to all of them, but for now, here's the hypothermia d'Artagnan idea that Candy Cakes suggested. I hope you like it and thanks for the prompt!_

* * *

_Okay_, d'Artagnan thought to himself; _I fold. I'm officially a fool._

Now, this realization should not have been so unexpected, but the fact was that he was wet, miserable, and downright cold. For whatever reason, the King had decided that a good winter hunt had been in order and Louis, with vehemence, had asked for the four of them specifically. D'Artagnan wasn't sure why, but- dammit, he was _cold_.

Aramis had told him to dress warmly, but admittedly d'Artagnan had very little with him in Paris belongings wise. The warmest thing he owned was his leather jacket, which was worn and thin and meant more as a small throwover for protection than anything, and his tight trousers. Athos had bought him spectacular new boots, which he was extremely grateful for, but the fact was that boots didn't do much when the rest of your body was freezing.

The Inseparables all had their musketeer armor and uniform which, although cumbersome at times, was layered and, above all, _warm_. A pain in the arse on summer days, sure, but d'Artagnan was fairly certain he'd kill for one of them at the moment.

A shiver wracked his body as the delicate snowfall began again, the animated chat of Louis to Treville fading in the background as d'Artagnan was brought back many years. He remembered his first snowfall, the first he'd ever seen in Gascony; his father's face; his mother's sparkling eyes; the reflection of the candles in the windows of houses on the pristine white. It had seemed like heaven.

This path they had taken to hunt truly was beautiful too, with a wide path and huge evergreens spanning each side. The ground was covered in pine needles and freshly fallen snow, and the tracks of the buck they were hunting were clear, even in the new snowflakes littering the ground. The sky was grey with the weather, but d'Artagnan couldn't help but think that it looked more silver than anything, a pure, shining shade of it.

But he was still cold and the snow wasn't helping any, and he hunched in on himself in a desperate attempt to retain some body heat. He was losing it through his exposed head, he knew, but he didn't have a hat and wasn't in the mood to ask Bonacieux if he could borrow one. There were many things d'Artagnan would stoop to, but charity was not one of them.

The truth was that without his commission from Treville and with no real job in Paris, d'Artagnan was barely making it by as it was. He had no money to go out and buy new clothing or a new hat, and he suspected his friends knew this. Still, it didn't stop them from berating him for his stupidity.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis scolded, and d'Artagnan felt his cheeks coloring (and not from the cold), "what did I tell you about dressing warmly? You're going to freeze."

Porthos let out a booming laugh, and even he had his bandana under a hat that covered his ears. Handkerchiefs were pulled over mouths and noses to protect them from frost, their gloves shielding their hands from the harsh bite of the wind. He ignored the next shudder that wracked his frame and instead sat straighter on his horse. If he was anything, it was prideful, and he wouldn't be mocked here without giving himself some defense.

"No more than Athos's cold heart," d'Artagnan joked, eyes darting to the older musketeer (who was giving him that Look, dammit, that all too knowing look that he had) and d'Artagnan ducked his eyes again. He sensed more than saw Athos's satisfied nod.

Porthos laughed. D'Artagnan could still hear Louis talking to Treville, but he could feel the Captain's eyes on him. The hair on the back of his neck stood up straighter. "Lad, are you looking to come to an untimely death?"

D'Artagnan smirked. "Well, I've no self preservation anyway, according to Aramis," he said, and then decided to move from the topic of his death before his friends could dwell too much. "Speaking of which: Aramis, how'd that date last night go?"

Porthos choked on another laugh and even Athos's lips curled into a smile. Aramis remained unnaturally calm. "Very well, d'Artagnan. She was almost as pretty as you," he said.

"Don't flatter yourself, Aramis. I'm firmly a bachelor," d'Artagnan replied, and Aramis removed his hat- dislodging the snow that had collected atop it- and gave a swooping bow (or, as well a bow he could while sitting horseback, but in d'Artagnan's opinion he pulled it rather successfully).

"My sincerest apologies, Monsieur Bachelor. But honestly, d'Artagnan, how can you stand this weather?"

D'Artagnan tried to give a nonchalant shrug, but it came out stiff. D'Artagnan had a sneaking suspicion that his joints had frozen together from being exposed to such cold temperatures.

"How are your hands?" Aramis asked, and it was then d'Artagnan realized that Aramis was reaching for him. He reared back, flicking his reins so he moved away from his concerned friend.

"Fine!" He said, taking a deep breath as Aramis raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, Aramis. I'm a little cold, yes, but it's nothing I can't handle. My hands are fine. I'll tell you if something is wrong, alright?"

And Aramis, aware that he was beaten, nodded halfheartedly.

The truth was, there was something wrong. D'Artagnan had lost feeling in his fingers a while ago- maybe half an hour (if only he could see the sun)- and they were slowly turning blue at his fingernails. D'Artagnan knew this was cause for concern, knew that he should tell his friends, but he was hesitant with King Louis and Treville so close. He was fairly confident that just sticking his hands under his arms was helping (as the blue hadn't spread past the buds of his nails) and that he could handle it himself._ If it gets any worse,_ he promised himself, _I'll go to Aramis._

Another shiver danced down his spine, chilling him to his core. Damn weather. Why did Louis want to hunt in the snow, anyway?

Silence descended as the need for it arose, as they were getting close to their prey. Louis was tense with anticipation and many minutes passed with only the crunch of the horses' footfalls permeating the quiet of the forest. D'Artagnan found himself blinking heavily as a blanket of fatigue settled over him. He hadn't gotten much sleep last night, he supposed. Nightmares…

Shaking his head and taking a stuttering breath, he tried to ignore the cold seeping into his bones and concentrate on looking for threats. Right. Threats.

Taking another slow breath (his chest was heavy, and he blamed it on the tiredness) he blinked heavily, snowflakes sticking to his eyelashes. Opening his eyes (when had he shut them?!) he glanced around, and found the strange glint of something out place through the trees…

"DOWN!" He screamed, and everyone ducked a shot rang out, smashing into the branch above the King's head. D'Artagnan sprang from his horse and unsheathed his sword, disregarding his numb fingers and trusting in muscle memory, making his way to the King with steady, quick steps. Looking up the lane again, he noticed three more of those strange glints that glowed in the light of the silver sky, and without truly thinking, without truly considering the consequences, he tackled the King from his horse as three shots rang out.

D'Artagnan, in that one split second, took back everything he'd thought about the path being beautiful; just over the ridge of the right side was a steep decline, and he King Louis rolled over one another through the trees as d'Artagnan tried to slow their fall with little luck. Gasps of pain escaped both as they slammed repeatedly into the ground, bashing against rocks and protruding sticks. They were nearing the bottom, they had to be; they'd been rolling through the snow (which concealed all the obstacles) for ages now, hours; they had to-

He turned in the hopes to cushion the King's fall because Louis was important and d'Artagnan was not, and he had to protect-

Then his shoulder struck something blunt and hard, and d'Artagnan knew no more.

**...**

He came to with water trickling over his hair. Giving a moan as a sharp pain lanced its way through his head at the freezing water, he slowly opened his gummied eyes, blinking in the darkness. King Louis was leaning over him, a ball of snow held in one well gloved hand as Louis was using the snow to both ice his head and bring him 'round.

"Are you awake, Musketeer?" The King asked timidly, scooping up another bunch of snow and plopping it into d'Artagnan's hair. D'Artagnan blinked and gently sat up, feeling around his shoulder to gauge what kind of an injury it was. There was a bruise that was incredibly sore when he prodded at it, and he would definitely show it to Aramis later, but he suspected everything else was in order and he didn't have a serious injury. He didn't know how long he'd blacked out for or why, but he was positive he had no concussion.

"Yes, Your Majesty," d'Artagnan said, but his tongue felt too thick for his mouth. He could think somewhat clearly, which was a blessing, and the first thing that fully registered was: Soaking. Cold.

Louis exhaled, looking incredibly relieved. D'Artagnan shook his head, trying to clear the fog from it. "Uh-" he started, pinching the bridge of his nose, "what- erm. Where are the others?"

Louis pointed over d'Artagnan's shoulder, up the incline. "Up there on the path, I'd imagine."

Right now, d'Artagnan was not appreciating sarcasm. "Right. Well Your Majesty, I think we're just going to have to tough it out and climb."

Louis gave him an incredulous look, and d'Artagnan pursed his lips. He had little patience at the moment. He was dizzy now, and his stomach was tossing uncomfortably, like he was going to lose his breakfast. Swallowing convulsively and dutifully ignoring the burning in his stomach, he took a shallow breath, watching the air mist in front of him.

"Alright, Your Majesty," d'Artagnan said as he struggled to his feet, stumbling a little, "let's get you back safe and sound."

And to his credit, Louis said nothing, allowing d'Artagnan to think coherently for a couple minutes in peace.

Taking another shallow breath (as his chest hurt when he breathed) he reached a hand down to help the King up-

only to discover that his fingers- all ten of them- were blue. Bluer than before. Bluer than was probably safe.

_Oh God._ He could lose his fingers.

Taking a steady breath and disregarding the burning of his lungs, he helped Louis to his feet and, together, they made the impossible journey upward. D'Artagnan's limbs were feeling watery and weak, and he stumbled and swayed every few steps. Louis steadied him (to d'Artagnan's mild surprise) and although the Gascon wanted to thank his king, he found he couldn't think well enough to form the words, much less speak them. His mouth and lips weren't cooperating with him.

"Just a little farther," Louis muttered, and d'Artagnan only then became aware he was leaning on his ruler quite dependently, and that Louis was gripping his upper arm with both hands. He wasn't sure if the saying was to reassure himself to reassure the Gascon, though, so d'Artagnan kept silent.

"Why're...y'helpin'...I could...hn…s've...yrslf..." He tried to express the thought into words._ Why are you helping me? Save yourself._

Louis stopped his ascent and looked him in square in the eye, and d'Artagnan was only fairly certain that he was supposed to bow or something of the sort. He settled for lowering his eyes. Louis tipped his face back up. "Musketeer, you cushioned my fall and saved me from an assassin, well aware of the chance of death," he said. "Of course I'm helping you."

And d'Artagnan couldn't argue with that (literally, his mouth refused to move and his head was spinning so hard he was _sure_ the world was moving too) and they started up the slope again. D'Artagnan stumbled and fell into the snow, but Louis patiently picked him up again and helped him upwards, standing beside him to steady him. D'Artagnan took back any and all bad things he'd ever remotely considered about the King of France.

They reached the top (finally, how long had it been- years?) and Louis lowered the exhausted and downright spent d'Artagnan to the ground, calling to some people in the distance, "help! Over here! He is injured…"

Then there was warmth and light and Athos and soft voices and gentle touches and rubbing and feeling but still cold, and d'Artagnan closed his eyes.

**...**

"You...wake...d'Artagnan….please...leaving….option...up...c'mon…"

_Tired._

"Know….hurts...back….us…"

_Tired._

"Give up….not...going to….allow…"

_Tired._

"Wake...order, d'Artagnan, wake up!"

Suddenly, white light and flashing and pain flared in his body and he arched, crying out against it; steady hands held him firm but he was still cold, so cold that he couldn't even think, his teeth were chattering so hard he was sure they were going to be knocked from his head-

"That's it, d'Artagnan, good boy- good boy-"

He coughed painfully and felt something constrict in his chest as he hacked, breathless, and still couldn't breathe- he needed to draw breath or else he would die, pale in the snow alone, from his own stupidity-

_"You're going to freeze to death."_

_"How can you stand this weather?"_

This was his fault because he couldn't afford and then he went on the mission and- and-

A sting across his cheek and a sharp voice: "D'Artagnan, calm down!"

_Athos?_

"Yes, lad, shh- you'll be alright, you're shivering again."

Shivering? Why was that a good thing?

Then he remembered his blue fingers and tried to twitch them but couldn't- his hands, oh God his hands, Athos- _Athos_-

A hand brushing back his hair from his face was what truly calmed d'Artagnan down. It was a familiar gesture, one his mother always performed when he was ill at ease and one his father always did when he was sick. Athos had, for some unknown reason, taken to doing it also, but either way d'Artagnan knew that he was safe and Athos was there and nothing would happen to him.

There were other hands, too, gently kneading his fingers and causing pinpricks of annoying pain to start; he groaned. My _hands_…

"What about them, d'Artagnan?" A voice asked, and he recognized the smooth timbre as Aramis's. Damn. Had he been saying everything aloud?

"Mostly," Another voice- Porthos- answered. "The musings of Charles d'Artagnan of Lupiac are intensely riveting."

"Gave me chills," Someone agreed from above him, and d'Artagnan squinted. _Athos_? "Yes, d'Artagnan. You are safe."

And the one thought he intended to voice in that moment if he could?

_I know._

**...**

He supposed he shouldn't have been so surprised when, a week later, five care packages showed up on his door step. Aramis, Porthos, Athos, Treville and the king himself had all sent d'Artagnan more than one pair of gloves, hats, scarves, jackets, coats, warm, thick pants, and boots.

He smiled.

_I definitely know._

* * *

_Well, that wraps that up. Next up is burnt/singed/ d'Artagnan, suggested by Tidia! Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it, and please leave me a comment on your thoughts/ any suggestions/prompts you may want to see! Until next time! (Which is probs tomorrow, to be honest)_


	5. Didn't Want You To Worry

_Hey everyone! Thanks for all the feedback- again, you're all amazing! This chapter was requested by Tidia, who asked for a burnt d'Artagnan! Here it is and I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

D'Artagnan winced at the pain but didn't dare prod the sharp stinging on his right side. Was it dangerous, leaving the burn untreated on his side? Yeah, a little. He could hold out until Aramis was able to patch him up or else until he was able to get to it himself.

Was it deadly keeping things from Athos? Oh, yes.

Clenching his jaw as the horse jerked him to and fro, d'Artagnan tried to draw his scorched shift away from the wound while simultaneously covering it with his jacket so Athos didn't see. The older musketeer had enough to worry about; d'Artagnan did not want to add "young, injured Gascon boy" to the list.

Athos had quite enough to deal with; he certainly didn't need d'Artagnan complaining about something as little as a burn. It wasn't like it wasn't treatable.

Swaying with the horse and gritting his teeth against the pain, he wet his lips and tried to think of something to say to break the awkward tension that had settled over them both.

"Her name- or, one of her names- was Anne," Athos started quietly, and d'Artagnan's eyes widened as he listened with rapt attention, his pain forgotten, "and she was Milady De Winter, as I knew her. We were in love, d'Artagnan-I was in love. I was happy. Thomas...that is, my younger brother...he was so compassionate, d'Artagnan." He paused, and d'Artagnan could barely believe Athos was sharing this with him.

Athos turned to face him and d'Artagnan held his breath. "You can tell no one of this," Athos said lowly, quietly, but there was an unspoken threat there that d'Artagnan heard, and he frantically shook his head. He just wanted to help. Athos saw this and continued. "Thomas...was my younger brother by many years, but he was so mature and grown up that sometimes, his wisdom exceeded mine. He was a fine swordsman but cared little for battle, instead choosing to protect those in need. I remember…"

And as d'Artagnan was lost in Athos's memories, he dismissed the wound on his side as unimportant.

**...**

When he saw Aramis he remembered, and he was about to ask his friend to check it out, but the business with Bonnaire was still on the forefront of all their minds, and d'Artagnan figured that the burn could wait while they wrapped it all up.

He didn't count on falling and pulling on the side he was favoring; didn't count on landing on something hard. Didn't count on the burn- already tender and sore- ripping.

And then he had to put it aside to settle the affairs with Bonnaire, and Aramis was putting in a report and Porthos was out somewhere and Athos was drinking, and the blood was trickling down his side and it hurt, so bad.

And he wondered then idly if they actually cared for him at all, because now it really hurt and how in the world was he able to hide this from them so well?  
As he made his way to the Bonacieux house, limping and clutching at the blood and the stinging on his side, his body trembling, he mulled over the idiocy of not telling his friends about the burn in the first place and the fact that they didn't notice. Of course, it wasn't their fault and he didn't blame them for not noticing (he was trying to hide it, after all) but he...he didn't expected them to care exactly, but hoped they would- at least enough to notice that something was off.

Grimacing and trying his best to look uninjured, he opened the door, saying, "Constance, I apologize about this, but I need you to-"

"D'Artagnan, whatever it is it can wait until later. We have guests." She paused, and d'Artagnan leaned tiredly against the doorway. Even when it wasn't life threatening, the blood was copious and he was at the end of his frayed rope. "It's your rapscallion musketeer friends- honestly, they're around here far too much-"

"We are sorry for the inconvenience, Madame Bonacieux, but we had to see d'Artagnan," Aramis interrupted smoothly, sweeping forward and taking him by the arm, squeezing incredibly hard. D'Artagnan winced. "And you, Porthos, Athos and I," he gritted through his teeth, making d'Artagnan wince again but for an entirely different reason, "have to talk about withheld information. Excuse us," he added pleasantly to Constance, who was standing there with wide eyes.

Aramis dragged him from the room.

"You are a fool, d'Artagnan," he hissed, his hands travelling up d'Artagnan's sides to find the wound; he pulled them away red and cursed under his breath. "And a difficult friend to keep. Tell me, d'Artagnan; where is your self preservation?"

D'Artagnan, startled, confused and baffled, managed to respond, "think I lost it when I kept this from Athos, actually."

Aramis choked down a laugh. "Yes, he's quite understandably livid," he replied as if talking about something as mundane as the weather. "And Porthos is ready to kick you wherever he wants, as hard as he can, as many times as he pleases."

D'Artagnan lowered his eyes, and Aramis stopped him before they could go up the stairs to d'Artagnan room. "D'Artagnan," Aramis said softly, but d'Artagnan kept his eyes to the floor. He felt fingers under his chin, forcing him to look up into Aramis's forgiving face. "D'Artagnan," Aramis repeated, fondly but slightly exasperatedly, "how are we supposed to help if you do not tell us? We noticed something off but it wasn't until you fell that we realized. Why did you not tell us?"

D'Artagnan sighed. "I...I…"

Aramis blew a breath out of his cheeks. "Hold the thought. Tell all of us upstairs."

They went tromping up the stairs, d'Artagnan stutteringly (as it pulled on his side) and Aramis supporting him. Aramis toed open the door, and d'Artagnan looked up to find Athos and Porthos staring at him. He ducked his head as Aramis guided him into the room, his hand softer where it rest on his shoulder than it originally was.

Aramis coaxed him to lie down on his left side, pulling up his shirt to expose the bleeding burn. "How did you even manage to get burnt here?"

D'Artagnan shrugged, looking up to find Athos glaring at him. It was enough to make him cower, and he answered meekly, "I- I slammed into a burning table."

"On your side?"

"Charging through the doo- ow!" d'Artagnan flinched as Aramis began his stitching, and if Porthos grabbed his ankles harder than necessary at the same time, well, d'Artagnan didn't say anything.

And Athos stood there, glaring at him with such venom that it physically hurt d'Artagnan deep in his chest, and whatever Aramis was doing was burning him worse than the actual burn was, and he was seeing dark spots, and he hadn't wanted to worry them and he was _sorry_.

He hadn't realized he said the last part aloud, but suddenly Porthos's hands loosened to something more grounding than painful, and the burning on his side dulled down to a sting instead, and there was a hand in his hair.

"Do you understand now, d'Artagnan?" Athos asked quietly from where he was standing by d'Artagnan's head.

"Yeah. I do."

And he did.

* * *

_There we go! That was burned/singed/d'Artagnan! Thank you for reading, please leave me a comment and some suggestions on your thoughts! _

_I gotta GISHWHES it out for the next week, so I'm sorry if updates come late! (GISHWHES- Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen.)_


	6. In Sickness and in Health

_Hey, friends! So I'm exhausted from GISHWHES already in the...best possible way. I've been making brochures, I've been talking to people, I've been doing strange lawn work whilst travelling and on vacation. But I've managed this chapter for you all, because you're all so faithful and wonderful and amazing. This was requested by Kittyboo, who wanted d'Artagnan with a cold. Hope you like!_

* * *

He probably should have realized that after jumping into the river to save the little girl in the dead of winter he'd manage a cold, but he didn't, and he wasn't paying attention. When he'd woken up a few mornings ago feeling something tight in his chest, his nose clogged and his body aching, he should have stayed in bed. He should've probably rested and ate soup and let Constance mother him for a couple days, but he didn't.

He had patrol with his friends today, and he didn't want to worry them.

He didn't have much time to think about his sore muscles or his throat that felt like broken glass or his splitting headache, however, because his friends kept him busy with banter and stories of their adventures (on missions or in the taverns) and made him smile constantly.

He almost forgot how terrible he felt until he returned to Bonacieux's, where Constance offered him food. Feeling his stomach toss dangerously, d'Artagnan refused, and it didn't even occur to him that he hadn't eaten since yesterday and that he _should_ have hungry.

He plopped down on bed, had barely a second to appreciate the softness of it, before he knew no more.

The next day was worse.

When he woke up, knives stabbed through his eyes to straight into his head, and he pulled his arms- which didn't seem to want to cooperate- up to shield his eyes. The light from the window was blinding.

"Up," Constance's voice penetrated too loudly through the fog in his mind, and he groaned, rolling over. He felt a hand land on his forehead and a quiet exclamation of surprise. "D'Artagnan, you're burning up!" She said (too loud) and he gave a muffled moan as his stomach lurched. He barely had the strength to roll over in his bed before he was retching violently, his frame trembling.

He dimly registered Constance holding his hair back away from his face and her cool fingers on the back of his neck as he finished, panting. She had grabbed a handkerchief at some point, wiping his mouth and easing him back onto the bed.

"Stay there," she whispered now, and he was more grateful than he could say, "and I'll get you some water. Does your throat hurt?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but only a small squeak was heard. D'Artagnan shut his mouth quickly, frowning in dismay. Constance couldn't help her small giggle. "Alright, alright, settle. I'll go get you something for your throat, too." She bent down and handed him the chamber pot from under his bed. "If you need to-" She winced, "be sick...be sick in that."

D'Artagnan managed a weak nod, and she swept out of the room. His chest was so tight he couldn't breathe, but he was so exhausted he wasn't willing to move.

Constance returned in a time only measured in pain, a hand on the back of his neck to support him while he took small sips from the water. Even then, it still made his throat feel like there was broken glass inside of it. She offered him tea with honey, which he slowly drank gratefully.

There was a knock from downstairs at the door, and had d'Artagnan enough energy he would have run and hid. He knew it was his musketeers, knew they were coming for him because they did not know where he was and what was happening, and it was probably the worst thing that could have happened at the moment.

"He's very ill, Athos," Constance's voice floated up the stairs to d'Artagnan's ears, "he can't-"

"Madame, please let me through," Athos's calm but slightly impatient tone reached him, "he did not show up for our patrol today, and we are merely wondering how he is."

"He isn't well, as I've said," Constance retorted, sounding annoyed now, but he could hear the moment that Athos ignored her and came up the stairs. He stifled a whimper as pain shot through his head with each step of Athos's heavy boot, and found himself suddenly, desperately, hopelessly wishing for his mother.

The door squeaked, light filtering through, and d'Artagnan clamped his eyes shut. He could hear Athos take a deep breath as he saw him, curled up in bed, swaddled like a child because of his chills, eyes clenched shut, face pale. He imagined that he looked pretty pathetic, and immediately he was filled with the deepest self loathing and humiliation he'd ever felt.

"Please, Athos," he choked, his voice barely above a strangled, strained whisper because of his throat, "please leave me al-lone."

D'Artagnan's eyes were closed and he heard not a sound from Athos as a few seconds ticked by. D'Artagnan allowed himself to hope for one split second that Athos had done as he had asked, but this was abandoned when he felt the bed dip next to him. He could not stifle his moan-but whether it was of shame because Athos was witnessing this, relief that he had not actually gone, or perhaps both, the Gascon wasn't sure.

"Headache, hm?" Athos said, his voice quiet and gentle, like it became when around a jumpy horse. Calm. Collected. Soothing.

D'Artagnan gave a grunt in affirmative, and suddenly there were fingers on both of his temples, and d'Artagnan was just about to jerk his head in protest when the pain suddenly began to melt away. Immediately it softened into something more manageable and less agonizing, and d'Artagnan gave a small exhale as the pain finally evaporated.

The hands moved to his upper arms, which he had no idea were hurting until Athos was slowly rubbing them. Sagging into the bed, d'Artagnan inhaled slowly, the air wheezing past his lips. As it entered his lungs, though, something went wrong, and he ended up sprawled on his side again, hacking. The hacking induced his headache again, which was so severe that he barely had time to grab the chamber pot before he was sick in it.

Athos was silent for a few seconds as d'Artagnan shook, trying his best to discreetly wipe the tears from his eyes. His throat burned from the bile and he was cold and shaky and tired.

"Oh, you poor boy."

It was a murmur, more to Athos than to d'Artagnan, but the young Gascon heard it as Athos gently pried the chamber pot from his hands and rinsed it, tucking it back within reaching distance. A cool cloth was placed against his aching head, and the pain eased once again.

A hand tenderly came to rest on his chest, an uncomfortable weight, and d'Artagnan sucked in a breath to warn the older man, which ended in coughing. Another hand rubbed at his back.

The hand at his chest lightly began to rub in small circles, and d'Artagnan's twitching muscles stilled. Athos continued, not looking up, and d'Artagnan found that gradually it was getting easier to breathe. His wheeze was subsiding too, and he was feeling drowsy and more comfortable and heavy, and he murmured, "...'Thos…"

Fingers stroked at his hair, and he slipped into sleep as quickly as one may snuff a flame from a candle.

Bedridden for several days, d'Artagnan had visitors almost every hour- Porthos, Aramis, and Athos seemed to be taking watches. Constance was present a lot, too, as he was too weak to even lift his head to sip at broth by himself, so she spoon fed him until he was able. Bonacieux even gave him a visit, surprising d'Artagnan by reading to him from the Bible until he slipped asleep again, listening to the stories of David and Goliath and Noah and his Arc.

Of course once he was well the following conversation was inevitable.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis called him over when he entered the garrison, his three friends collected around a table, "come here."

Swallowing and trying not to fidget, d'Artagnan obliged. Porthos gestured for him to sit, and he did so warily.

His three musketeers leaned forward. "Tell us, d'Artagnan," Aramis said through forced calm, "I truly want to know. What in the world possessed you to not tell of your injuries again?"

D'Artagnan was lost for words. "I- I-"

"Furthermore," Aramis cut off, "surely you knew that you were becoming ill- the day before your sickness, you were very quiet- and still you said nothing."  
D'Artagnan could feel the tension now, hanging in the air like a dead thing. "I...well, you see-"

"Lad," Porthos said, and sounded incredibly earnest, "we want to help. You are not a burden. You are not useless to us if you are injured or sick. You are a good friend, d'Artagnan. A brother in arms. You understand?"

D'Artagnan's throat was closing up. "I- I-"

"Also," Athos cut off smoothly, "we are duty bound to take care of you. Will you not let us?" A pause in which d'Artagnan squirmed uncomfortably. "And we are your family, d'Artagnan. We will help."

D'Artagnan nodded, finding himself teary again for the second time as he realized that in the time he had been sick, only once had he wished for his mother, and it was before Aramis, Porthos, and Athos had taken care of him.

* * *

_There it was, folks. Thank you for reading, as always I hope you enjoyed, and please leave me comments/suggestions on your thoughts :)_

_I'm off to go make an ice cream hat and sit in a hot tub._


	7. The Shining Sun

_Hey guys! Thanks, firstly, for all the support for GISHWHES! I've got lots of prompts to work through, but here's RangerMyra's heatstroke!d'Artagnan for you. Hope you enjoy!_

_Also, random question: How many of you watch Supernatural? Yes? No? ANYWAYS. How many of you'd read a Supernatural/Hogwarts/AU if I were to post it?_

* * *

How the summers in Paris were hotter than those in Gascony, d'Artagnan would forever ponder.

It was once again whilst they were on a hunt with King Louis- His Majesty loved to be out in nature, despite the citadel life, and he was young and free and wild in his restrained and dignified way. D'Artagnan often had to remind himself that his monarch was only his age, as Louis seemed so important and d'Artagnan so ordinary, but truly Louis was twenty two and d'Artagnan himself was nineteen.

D'Artagnan had thought nothing of the heat of the summer day- since he was with the King he still wore his jacket, and he had nothing else but the beautifully crafted boots (still looking new and shining) that Athos had gifted him with after the situation with Vadim, and his trousers. Seeing as he had no other clothing and this was what he wore in Gascony on days such as this, d'Artagnan had not seen this a problem.

The musketeers themselves were dressed in their thick uniforms, hats on their heads. At least they had some shade. D'Artagnan would normally tie his hair back- as was done in Gascony by both men and women working the fields, to avoid fainting and illness- but he was in the presence of a noble and didn't dare. He knew men in Paris had no reason to tie their hair, and was slightly worried about the reaction should he do so.

The air was heavy with humidity and the oppressing heat, his jacket very nearly burning his skin through his undershirt. Athos, Porthos and Aramis had not a problem- joking and bantering like they were the most comfortable they could be in the world, and d'Artagnan merely reasoned that they were more used to the Paris heat than he.

In Gascony, as it was primarily farming country, men and women alike would strip down to the barest clothing that kept them both modest but cool as they worked. For d'Artagnan, that would be his undershirt and trousers. People often went without boots because of the soil's coolness.

While people worked, they'd take the cool, slightly damp dirt (because while the crops absorbed the sun, the soils underneath their canopies remained dewy from the night) and smear it on faces and hands to avoid the burn of the sun. It was effective and safe, and helped the people of Gascony throughout even the hottest summer days.

But now d'Artagnan could not do any of it- could not strip nor dirty himself nor dunk his head- another custom- in water to keep his hair wet and his face moist, another way to stay cool underneath the beaming sunshine. He was in the presence of not only his friends- who would no doubt mock him endlessly for it- and his Captain _and_ his King, and he didn't dare.

Oh, but he wanted to.

After the last talk with his musketeers, d'Artagnan had taken their words of friendship and family and care to heart, and had not forgotten his promise to tell them of any ill he may feel. He only felt- well, more than a little warm, and he had run out of water a little while ago in a desperate attempt to remain cool- but he figured that they all must feel unbearably hot, and were merely dealing with it better than he was.

So he joined in with the joking and laughing and bantering, throwing out his own clever retorts to his friends'. And if it was making his throat feel like sandpaper whilst his friends took frequent sips from their waterskins, well, he tried to ignore that as best he could.

And it happened so suddenly that d'Artagnan was- quite literally- thrown off balance, only remaining on his mare by her quick timing and fast reflexes as she shifted her gait so he swayed back into the saddle. Blinking in astonishment and shutting his eyes tightly against the blaring headache that had formed, he fought back nausea and dizziness and immediately knew something was wrong.

His arms began to quiver as his back strained to remain on Buttercup, his strangely yellow speckled mare, as he took shallow breaths to try and get more air to his deprived lungs. All at once he knew what he had to do.

"Ar-Aram-" He choked, trembling, his eyes filling with tears as every sense grew worse. His friend turned with a smile on his face that instantly flickered to concern as he jumped from his own horse with a speed that was surprising, grabbing d'Artagnan as he finally fell from his saddle and right into his friends arms. He heard Aramis curse above him.

"I-tr-i-d-" he gasped, eyes alight as pain he'd never known sprang from his whole body, burning him from the inside, "I din-d real-ze Aram-"

"I know, d'Artagnan, I know," Aramis said hurriedly, to reassure him d'Artagnan supposed, and he swallowed and another roll of nausea rippled through him.

"What is it?!" Came Porthos's alarmed voice as he felt himself transferred from Aramis's embrace into Porthos's and folded like a babe into strong arms, "and where do I put him?"

"Somewhere with shade, quickly-" Blurs as things moved too fast, and suddenly d'Artagnan knew he was going to retch, throwing his hand up and finding Porthos's hands cradling his head and dislodging it, rolling just in time to miss his friend completely. Coughing as he came back up, a rag gently wiped the bile away from his lips. "Get me your waterskins, all of you- come on- Captain, scout and see if you can't find a creek or a river or-"

But the sound of hoof beats was the only answer and d'Artagnan knew he was gone. He could hear the King in the background, flittering nervously to and fro, murmuring, "what can I do, what can I do?"

"Just stand back, Your Majesty," Athos replied, and d'Artagnan was more grateful than ever that in the midst of people sounding frantic and shaky, Athos was still firm and calm, still here. A hand in d'Artagnan's hair. A soothing, low voice in his ear.

"D'Artagnan," he said, brushing d'Artagnan bangs away from his face, "I know. It's alright. This comes on suddenly. It's alright."

And a panic that d'Artagnan hadn't know was in his heart suddenly dissipated, and he realized that he had been worried that he'd let his friends down again. He felt people removing his jacket and his shirt, and he blushed as he thought of the King again, but his monarch remained silent. D'Artagnan could sense him somewhere to the left.

Something wonderfully wet and cool splashed over his chest, and d'Artagnan gasped in relief, grappling for it. Athos- for he could recognize the calloused hands anywhere- gently grabbed it and brought it back down, and the water was dipped over his head into his hair, across his face and eyes and under his arms and across his legs. A waterskin was at his lips and he sipped eagerly until it was pulled away.

A whine ripped itself unbidden from his throat, and Porthos's voice, "hush, lad, sh- it's alright, lad, it's not gone. You must take smaller sips, d'Artagnan, else you'll be sick."

He didn't want to listen, didn't want to have to restrain himself, didn't want the willpower to have to do so, but he knew that it was the truth and so tried his best to do as told. He was rewarded with a pat to his cheek.

Hoofbeats again, growing louder and louder until Treville's voice, calm and sturdy but nonetheless urgent, "there's a river about two miles down the road- if we take a shortcut through the woods, it will be faster. Follow me."

And he was lifted again, placed against Aramis's chest (still shirtless) and he could feel the sway of the horse, could hear the crunch of branches underfoot, feel the water trickling over his head still. He just didn't process any of it.

And suddenly he was being lowered into cool water and it was beautiful, maybe the most beautiful thing he'd ever felt, and distantly he felt a smile cross his lips as he exhaled. His headache still throbbed and his stomach still tossed and everything felt weak and sore and disoriented, and he wanted to curl up somewhere dark and cool and stay there, but the hands holding him were tender and he was cooling and this was okay for now.

"'M sorry," he murmured, remembering again his promise to tell them. Breathless chuckles from above.

"It's alright, d'Artagnan. You didn't feel it coming until it was there, huh?" Aramis.

D'Artagnan nodded, feeling sleepy and heavy and generally comfortable. It was easy enough to forget his nausea and his headache whilst in the cool water.

"'N Gascony," he slurred, feeling the need to explain himself, "we'd...take th' cool earth under th' crops and smear it on our faces 'n hands...helped. 'N we'd be in small clothes, too- boys 'n girls. No one r'lly cared 'n that heat, y'know?" He took a breathe. "'N...we'd wet our hair or tie it back t'keep cool...'cause we'd havta work th' fields in that heat. Was torture if you didn't have anythin'." Satisfied, he fell silent.

There was a pause. "Oh, d'Artagnan. You probably had no idea what summers in Paris would be like, did you?"

"Mm," he murmured, "no."

Another round of breathless chuckles. "And you knew it would be hot but hadn't thought of the fact you wouldn't be able to use any of those things, lad?"

"Mm," he agreed absently.

A sigh. "You're a fool, d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony," Athos said, fingers combing through his sopping hair. "An absolute fool."

D'Artagnan couldn't help his grin when he heard the quieter addition of, "but a fool who keeps his promises."

* * *

_Alright-y, folks! Thanks again for all the reviews, follows, favorites, and prompts! I love them all. Next up is d'Artagnan with the allergy, then more whump, more whump, and more whump, and then Aramis whump for a little change up! So that's something different. Anyways, I'm off to go dress up as Batman and go play bingo, so...ciao!_


	8. Why the Little Things, d'Artagnan?

_Hello there, my friends! Firstly: HOLY ACTUALLY BANANAS, THOUGH. I WENT FROM 47 reviews to 63 because of you guys! (Special thanks to Raouldehandleyfraser for all the extra reviews!) _

_**bearsareawesome**: I am psychic. I could feel the Supernatural force particles in the air. How else would I know?_

_**Tianne**: I'm sorry about you feeling ill, but thank you for the review!_

_**ajaali**: Thanks for the review! As the for the Supernatural/Hogwarts, it isn't a _crossover_, where they'd _meet_ Harry Potter and company, it's an AU_,_ where they'd attend Hogwarts. Crowley would be Potions Master, Ellen would be so-and-so teacher, Bobby would take the place of Hagrid...you get the idea. Sorry you were confused and I hope you enjoy this chapter!_

_**CandyCakes**: Thanks! _

_**asyousual**: Well, you know Athos. He likes to be cryptic._

* * *

Now, in d'Artagnan's defense, he hadn't know that the plant would turn out itchy, and hadn't known that it was a result of him touching it.

So of course, he didn't tell Aramis.

It was just itching, after all; it wasn't like he couldn't breathe or couldn't see or couldn't move. It was just an annoyance, not a hindrance.

Well, he was wrong.

As they were on a mission to pass a message to a nearby noble from the King himself, they were, of course, fooling around and dilly dallying as much as they possible could and still blame it on the weather. D'Artagnan laughed and sang along to their songs and made comebacks to their jabs, and it had been a good day.

A perfect day, actually. The sun was shining brightly, not a cloud in the sky. Despite the heat of the day, there was a cool breeze blowing through, allowing the musketeers to dance around each other in childish displays of happiness, grinning from ear to ear like d'Artagnan had never seen them. They'd spar when they'd stop for lunch and swim if they came across a river.

It was very close to perfection.

And then it had ended and they were still no where near their inn, which was their checkpoint, so they'd have to camp outside. The musketeers seemed to have expected this though, because they pulled out the camping gear they'd packed (and now d'Artagnan knew why Treville had sent them disapproving looks when he'd seen it on the horses).

"Go get us some more wood for the fire, will you, d'Artagnan?" Aramis said in the same fond, light tone he always used when addressing d'Artagnan when at ease, and d'Artagnan had been happy to help, so he'd tromped off into the woods to get some.

He must have stepped through a patch of something- his trouser legs had been rolled up because of the swim earlier and the heat- and on his way back he found his lower legs growing...itchy.

Stopping and scratching helped none, so d'Artagnan shrugged and continued on, doing his best to ignore the burning.

He dumped the sticks and twigs near Aramis by the fire (earning a thank you and a pat on the back, to which he had grinned) and ducked under to his tent, rubbing at his arms. The night was growing chilly despite the fire, and he wanted his jacket.

His arms grew itchy- the same sort of itchiness that was along his legs- and d'Artagnan huffed, exasperated, pushing his bangs off his forehead. His head grew itchy where he had touched it.

Finally realizing what was going on brought no relief; in fact, it seemed to make everything worse. When he itched his skin, it only grew.

Sighing and finally comprehending that he stepped into a plant that made skin irritated, d'Artagnan huffed a frustrated breath. Couldn't he catch a break at least once?  
Sitting down at the side of the fire and deciding it wasn't important enough to bother Aramis after such a great day- he didn't want to ruin it, that would've been just cruel- he said nothing. He hadn't expected his act to last long, though, with all the fidgeting he had to do to get all his itches at the same time.

"What's going on, lad?" Porthos joked over his stew, "ants in your pants?"

There was no laughter though as all of his friends leaned towards him, studying him. Uncomfortable, d'Artagnan looked away. "D'Artagnan?" Aramis questioned, sounded worried, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, really," he started, and the glare from Athos made him pause.

"Choose your next words," Athos growled warningly, "very carefully, d'Artagnan."

His friends suddenly looked threatening.

D'Artagnan gulped. "I- I think I stepped in a plant that makes you itch." He winced, scratching at his arm. "Okay, I _know_ I stepped in a plant that makes you itch. And it spread. And I'm itchy."

A pause. Then hysterical laughter.

Rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest, he frowned on at his friends as even Athos proceeded to laugh until tears were in his eyes. Aramis was leaning on Porthos for support, and Porthos was actually lying on the ground. "d-d-d'Art-" Porthos started, but then chortling reclaimed him and it went on for several more minutes.

"Look," d'Artagnan said, annoyed and slightly hurt now, "I know it's stupid and childish and I'm dealing with it, alright?"

This brought them back to the present, the laughter gradually coming to a stop. "D'Artagnan," Aramis said, wiping his eyes, "we're not ma-making fun of you." A few more chuckles escaped him.

D'Artagnan's brows furrowed as his frown deepened. "Then...what are you doing?"

Porthos hiccuped a little, then said, "lad," clapping a hand on his shoulder, "you manage to get yourself into the worst situations- hypothermia, sunstroke, even that incident with Vadim so long ago; you just attract trouble wherever you go. Not in a bad way," he assured when he saw the fallen look on d'Artagnan's face, "in a worrying way. You don't…how do I put this…" He paused. "Trouble finds you, d'Artagnan. You don't necessarily have to go looking."  
This made d'Artagnan feel substantially better, but he was still confused. "So wait," he said, "why are you laughing then?"

Athos chuckled. "Because, boy," he said fondly, "out of all of the things you've managed to get yourself into, you actually choose the smallest and least dangerous to tell us about." He cuffed d'Artagnan gently over the head. "You're an idiot."

"But you're our little brother, and it's sort of important we keep you alive," Porthos said smiling, and the air grew awkward with emotion until Aramis broke it.

"Yeah. Who else can we send to do our chores instead of us?"

More laughter. D'Artagnan scratched at his legs and arms again.

Aramis's grin faded as he went to his pack and pulled out a salve. "I myself have reactions to plants like that," he said as he smeared some on the red, puffed up skin, "and I carry this with me. It will burn because it is cool in the beginning, but it helps. Trust me."

And d'Artagnan did- with more than his life- so he sat still through the burning that gave way to relief, and he gave a pleased sound in the back of his throat that had his friends chuckling.

He let Aramis smear it on all the itchy spots, pointing them out if Aramis skipped them but for the most part staying silent and simply enjoying the feeling of being cared for.

He was nearly asleep (the energy of the day and the final release he found from the itchiness) when he heard it, so soft that he almost didn't catch it, uttered from one of his friend's mouths.

"Even though it is something small, d'Artagnan," one of them- he didn't know who- whispered in his ear. "I'm glad you told us so we were able to help."

And then slipped into slumber, the assurance that his friends would be there for him easing his mind.

* * *

_Thanks for reading, please leave me a comment on your thoughts and Pondera 2.0, I DID end up shouting Robin :D_


	9. Under the Protection of

_Hey guys! Here's another chapter for you all and THANK YOU AGAIN FOR ALL THE FEEDBACK! I swear the reviews help me write faster._

_bearsrawesome: AH! I'm so sorry about that! I'll get it right in the future :)_

_Also, this was suggested by Guest, who wanted to see teasing Musketeers but then protective when something happened to d'Artagnan, so here you go!_

* * *

It was a well known fact that d'Artagnan was the youngest of their group by many years, being only nineteen while the rest of them were in their late twenties and early thirties. It was less well known (but still widely noticed) the protectiveness the older musketeers held for the youngest of their group and vice-versa. It was a less known fact that the musketeers had a huge soft spot for d'Artagnan.

It was known only to the garrison how much they reminded him of his status of "youngest brother" though.

The first time:

"D'Artagnan," Porthos called, shrugging a pile of letters into d'Artagnan's arms, "I need you to drop these off for me."

D'Artagnan blinked, frowning. "Uh- it's _your_ mail, Porthos. I have training."

Porthos shook his head, slinging an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulder. "You don't get it, lad," he said. "You're the youngest, therefore you do the most work. Off you go now." D'Artagnan glared daggers at his friend as Porthos waved to him, grinning. "Off you go!"

The second time:

"D'Artagnan," Athos called, jogging over, "I need you to deliver this report to Treville." D'Artagnan looked up from where he was sharpening his sword to Athos's outstretched hand. He smiled grimly.

"I would Athos, but I have to-"

"D'Artagnan," Athos said, sitting beside him, "I don't think you understand, here. You're the youngest." He said this like it was a huge rule that d'Artagnan was violating.

"But- Athos-"

"D'Artagnan," Athos interrupted, throwing up his infamous Look, "do not complain. Go on now." D'Artagnan sighed and stood, wiping his hands and taking the report. "Oh, and also," Athos added, already halfway across the courtyard of the garrison, "Treville is in a terrible mood. Tread carefully."  
The third:

"D'Artagnan," Aramis said pleasantly, (and the small smile curling the corners of his lips made d'Artagnan immediately wary). "I need a favor."

Cautiously, he replied, "well, what can I do for you?"

Aramis was still smiling that odd little half smile. "I need you to go over there, and talk to that woman," he said, pointing out into the street and at a pretty young blonde woman with an angelic face and a beautiful figure as she inspected some flowers.

"And...talk...about?" D'Artagnan asked, but Aramis only clapped him on the back.

"Just go and introduce yourself." Baffled but no longer terribly careful, d'Artagnan went up and said hello. He got a very prompt slap to the face, a lecture about Aramis not being able to face his own battles and a parting slap to close the conversation.

When he returned to the garrison, Aramis was no where to be found.

This continued on for- well- the duration of d'Artagnan's stay in Paris, him running errands and doing this and looking at that and receiving slaps from women he didn't know. He was growing annoyed with it, but somewhere deep down he knew it was out of affection rather than use.

It was actually on one of the days he was running an errand- dropping something off at Athos's apartments for him from the garrison- that he truly understood how much he meant to them. He had been walking along- minding his own business and trying desperately to avoid the Red Guards- when it happened.

The fist came flying out of nowhere, catching him in the face and sending him careening to the ground. Blinking in astonishment and looking up in time to just barely miss a swift kick to his nose (which caught him in the jaw instead) he went sprawling out onto the pavement.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the musketeer pup," someone said.

Another man chuckled. "Now I know why he's called that- he's a runt!"

Embarrassment and anger swelled within him, making his blood boil with the dangerous combination. Gritting his teeth and sitting up, he tried to bite back a retort but found a well placed kick to his exposed abdomen, making him instinctively curl again with a moan. "Pathetic. The only reason they keep you around, boy," Someone with a gravelly voice breathed in his ear, "is so you can run their errands."

D'Artagnan found his breath stolen, and not because of the kick. "Liar," he snarled, and found himself covering his head against an onslaught of attacks with fist and foot.

"You're joking yourself, kid," the same man muttered. "You're useless. Burden. They don't want you, if that's what you were thinking."

He opened his mouth and someone managed to kick him in the head, everything going sharp and blurry all at once. He was finally dimly aware that it was night, now, and that they were in a back alleyway. When did they get there from the main street?

The sun finally gone from the sky brought on another thought: d'Artagnan had left early evening. Surely his musketeers were looking for him.

"No one cares about you, boy," the man growled, and suddenly he found hands holding him down. Something heavy settled in his chest and his gut burned a warning.

He began to shove whoever was holding him down off, because he didn't like whatever this was- they were still kicking at him but he was yelling and gasping and fighting-

Then hoarse shouts and screams and the hands were gone, and he flailed because_ he had to get out of here right now_, and then the hands returned and he let out a desperate sob. _Please-_

"D'Artagnan!" The person shouted, "it's alright- you're safe, you're safe, you're alright boy, stop it now-"

Another sob ripped it's way from his chest because he wasn't- how had these horrible people learned his name-

"D'Artagnan, son, stop fighting me now." It had turned gentle and soothing, and through the fog of panic and pain and confusion in his head he latched onto the voice of Athos.

"Ath- Ath- Athos- Athos-" He gasped, throwing his hands out, and he heard his mentor mutter a curse before arms were enveloping him into a warm and comforting embrace. Athos smelled of leather and sage and cinnamon and something indescribably his own, and it was so soothing it made d'Artagnan want to cry. It was then he realized he _was_ crying- tears were rolling down his cheeks.

The terror that had lodged itself in his heart slowly melted, paving way for shame, embarrassment, and something akin to anger, and d'Artagnan began trying to fight his way out of Athos's embrace. The musketeer held fast though and d'Artagnan slumped back into it, classifying the feeling he couldn't understand as exhaustion.

A hand was laid on his shoulder and he flinched, but the voice it belonged to was familiar. "It's just me, lad. Only me."

Athos's hand was running through his hair, and d'Artagnan realized his face was pressed into the junction between Athos's neck and shoulder. He didn't care enough at the moment to move it, though, so instead he shifted so he could breathe better. Athos didn't react, just cradled him and stroked his hair.

Another hand against his back, and he knew it had to be Aramis. "Sh, d'Artagnan. It's alright."

They stood him up after a time, d'Artagnan wobbly on his feet, and guided him back to Bonacieux's where Constance was waiting. At one look to her lodger she banished him to his room and drew up a bowl of soup, staring at the three musketeers standing in the doorway. "I hope that they had hell to pay," she told them fiercely but quietly, aware that d'Artagnan was probably straining to hear every word.

It was in that moment that the musketeers truly understood Constance's amazing intuition as they bowed and showed her their knuckles.

All of them were bruised and bloody, and Constance couldn't help the small smile that graced her face.

It turned out that d'Artagnan had a minor concussion (after he had been sick and Constance had called Aramis to check him over) and was assigned bed rest for a few days as he recovered. Bruises blossomed across his face, arms and torso in spectacular shades of blue, green and purple. The first few days he was jumpy, his jaw clenched and his eyes sweeping in the dark corners of the room. The musketeers wished they could beat the Red Guards who'd done it all over again.

A week later saw d'Artagnan returned to the garrison, and as their custom, the musketeers began their teasing. It wasn't until Porthos good naturedly asked d'Artagnan to drop off a report to Treville that d'Artagnan suddenly paled, his eyes widening.

"Lad?" He questioned, and d'Artagnan sullenly took the letter for Porthos and dropped it off to Treville.

He was silent for the rest of the day, doing only what was asked of him. It was in this moment that the musketeers understood.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis called, and d'Artagnan looked up with dead eyes from what he was doing, "come here a moment." D'Artagnan complied without a word. "Sit down," he said, and d'Artagnan did so.

Aramis studied his friend for a moment, who was gazing at them with weary, hurt eyes, and then drew d'Artagnan into a hug.

They had learned quickly that d'Artagnan was not a man of so many words as he was actions, and touch would reassure him more than any words ever could. The musketeers had learned to be tactile in the months since they'd met their young friend, and would embrace him openly.

D'Artagnan sagged into Aramis's hug, saying everything without a word in that one movement. _Tell me I'm not a burden, tell me I'm not being used, tell me, tell me, tell me._

They were more than happy to do so, Aramis saying, "you are not a burden, d'Artagnan. Please stop thinking this of yourself. You are our little brother, and thus it is our job to tease you. You're not a burden. You're not a burden."

And every time he repeated 'you're not a burden', d'Artagnan heard the secret '_we love you. We promise.'_

So yes, it was a well known fact that d'Artagnan was the youngest of their group by many years, being only nineteen while the rest of them were in their late twenties and early thirties. It was a less known fact that the musketeers had a huge soft spot for d'Artagnan. It was known only to the garrison how much they teased him.

It was the widest known, though, what the musketeers would do to you should you touch their youngest brother.

* * *

_Y'know, it's my last hour of GISHWHES guys, and I gotta say that this ACTUALLY changed me. Like, it's weird. The team I worked with was so nice and sweet, and all the people on it were just amazing and supportive and lovely people. GISHWHES itself was fun as hell, let me tell you all, but...I don't know. It just...it opened doors I didn't think it would. Like, I was asking people things and doing things I wouldn't expect- like dressing as Batman and doing Bingo. _

_It was really eye-opening to like, the world and to disregard inhibitions, and I gotta say that it's not something I'll forget anytime soon. It's with a heavy heart that I find it's ending._

_Okay, well that sappy part it over- thanks for reading and please leave me a comment on your thoughts._


	10. Venom in the Veins

_Hey everybody! NINETY ONE REVIEWS. WHAT. THE. HECK. THOUGH. SERIOUSLY._

_Also, R.I.P. Robin Williams, for those who know about his tragic death. He was very talented and an extremely brilliant man, and it's terrible that he's dead._

_But anyways. This chapter is actually POISONED d'Artagnan, for those who suggested it (SORRY THIS ONE CAME TO ME SORRY) but I hope you enjoy all the same!_

* * *

Everything had gone relatively smoothly this time- Countess Ninon was alive, the Cardinal would make a full recovery, no one had been trying to kill the King for once and the musketeers had escaped without a scratch. Of course, the threat of Milady's existence still hovered over Athos's head, but he had his friends and he knew they'd back him should it come down to it. For now, peace was restored, and he wasn't about to poke at it to see if it would stay that way.

They'd decided to go out for drinks and a bite to eat- seeing as they hadn't quite had time in the last few days- and of course d'Artagnan, as was his custom, tagged along. It was second nature now, and Athos had trouble remembering the time when d'Artagnan had not been there at all. In just five short months, he'd managed to worm his way deeper than Athos had expected.

_Just like Thomas- compassionate loving innocent fierce protective hotheaded goodhearted-_

Shaking his head and raising his mug, his lips quirked as he stared at the young Gascon, who had his head thrown back and was laughing at some story or another Aramis had roped him into listening. Aramis always did know what to say and when to diffuse the tension, and after what stress they'd all been through this time, Athos was grateful for it.

It was astounding, how a smile completely changed d'Artagnan's young face. The usually tense, dark look was replaced with boyish innocence in laughter; the usually grave eyes banished by the sparkle of mischief and merriment. It was in these times that Athos saw d'Artagnan's true soul; pure, golden. Untainted by the world.

Perhaps this was why they'd wanted to protect him so, and perhaps this was why they went to such extreme measures to see that d'Artagnan was injured the least possible. The latter, of course, was inevitable; the boy (_young man, but d'Artagnan managed to seem so much younger than he actually was- Thomas just like him always so young and full of energy-)_ always seemed to be in some sort of trouble or another, and was an absolute beacon of clumsiness but contradicting grace when he did fall.

D'Artagnan was a puzzle- a beautiful, unsolvable, steady puzzle- and Athos knew that he, Aramis, and Porthos would never find all the pieces, but they could come close.

Another thing Athos brooded about in the times d'Artagnan didn't seem older than he was? The boy's skinniness. It concerned all three of them, an unspoken communication formed by years of partnership passing between the three in eyes and postures. D'Artagnan was too skinny. Skinnier than a farm boy should be- especially a farm boy of a retired musketeer. It had become one of their primary missions to make him eat as much as possible as often as possible, but they'd learned that when pushed, d'Artagnan would do the exact opposite of what you wanted.

Athos shook his head. Hot headed, arrogant child. But these imperfections Athos was fond of all the same; the very fact that d'Artagnan wasn't perfect made him charming.

D'Artagnan, for the moment, liked to think that he carried himself like a man when really, his body language mimicked that of a lost child. He followed them faithfully wherever they went, placing infallible faith in them and idolizing them as much as he allowed himself. He'd duck his head when they were disappointed, tugged on their sleeves (quite literally) when he needed their attention; sought praise when doing something good.

It was incredibly endearing and terribly adorable (in the most manly way Athos could possibly convey).

Grinning, d'Artagnan plucked a piece of bread from the loaf in the center of the table and ate it, saying after he swallowed, "yes, but of course Aramis a man of your talents would not have missed so-" but he stopped mid sentence, wetting his lips, and Aramis and Porthos began to laugh.

"What happened, lad? Lost the comeback?"

D'Artagnan paled a little, and Athos sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing as his brows furrowed. D'Artagnan's eyes were wide and he looked to Aramis, who was still laughing, tugging urgently on his sleeve and clapping the other hand around his neck, his jaw moving but no sound emerging from his mouth.

All at once in a terrible, horrible moment, Athos understood, knocking over his chair in his haste. God dammit- what did Aramis say they needed for the Cardinal- yellow custard and-

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis was on his feet, Porthos was running faster than Athos had ever seen to the kitchens and d'Artagnan was reaching for him desperately, eyes wide and face panicked. _Calm him down he is Thomas and he is frightened and he needs me I shan't fail him-_

Clasping one hand in both of his, he drew d'Artagnan's fists to his chest, holding them against his heart. "Concentrate, d'Artagnan," he commanded smoothly, his voice belying the fear freezing in his veins, "think of nothing but that heartbeat. Concentrate. Breath with it. Do not panic; I am here and I am not leaving."

Another way d'Artagnan was like a lost child? He was afraid of being left behind; alone.

D'Artagnan, eyes pools of immense trust, nodded, and Athos could physically see when d'Artagnan was slowly calming himself. Not relaxing, his muscles twitching with the start of convulsions, but calming.

"Good, son, good," Athos praised, knowing that this would help d'Artagnan along to continue. Encouragement. D'Artagnan's face suddenly changed, morphing into an expression Athos, Aramis and Porthos knew all too well, and Athos was putting a stop to it at once. "D'Artagnan, there was no way to know. Did you wash your hands with soap before you ate?"

A shake of the head, his eyes filling with regretful tears. Athos sighed and drew his young, frightened charge to his chest, where he could better control the spasming muscles that had just begun to jump. "Shh. It's alright. You had no way to know."

And then Aramis was back- _when had he left it didn't matter _help him_ Aramis_- and d'Artagnan had tears rolling down his cheeks and his hands were fisting in Athos's jacket and Athos was running fingers through d'Artagnan's hair and whispering sweet nothings and trying so desperately not to let himself think about losing the first light in his life since Thomas-

And then it stopped. Everything became eerily silent and still, d'Artagnan's face easing of its creases. His eyelashes flickered on his cheeks, and only then did Athos realize how very long and dark they were. "D'Artagnan?" He whispered, and Aramis's hand came to stroke one very, very alabaster cheekbone. Porthos was holding onto d'Artagnan's legs, which had just been kicking and thrashing like he was being attacked.

"'Thos..'Mis…" A moan; a whimper; a sob; it was still one of the most amazing sounds Athos had ever heard. He breathed a sigh, felt Aramis do the same, sensed more than saw Porthos relax. Porthos hoisted d'Artagnan into his arms, a light weight in Porthos's strong grip, carried like a babe (as Porthos favored to carry people, claiming that it was easier and more comforting to see and hear them breathing and alive. "Can't see that if they're over my shoulder, can I?" He'd said).

"P'ths…" A slur.

"Don't speak, lad. Just don't talk, d'Artagnan."

"Mm…"

"Shh."

"'Mmmmmis…"

"Be silent now, d'Artagnan. I am right here."

"'N...'Th-Thos…"

"Hush now, d'Artagnan. Be at peace. We will not abandon you."

And then d'Artagnan slept, and the musketeers stayed.

**...**

Of course d'Artagnan made a full recovery; that boy could bounce back from anything, given proper time and motivation (that being restlessness). In no time at all he was skipping back into the garrison, a grin splitting his lips and boyhood laying easily on his face, as though he was as unblemished as before. It was astounding and left the musketeer garrison in complete awe.

And if Athos caught d'Artagnan washing his hands meticulously every single time before he ate, well, he didn't say anything about it.

* * *

_**coughs** alright, thanks for reading, as always I love suggestions and please leave me a comment on your thoughts!_


	11. The Same Kind of Innocence

_...Whoa. We passed the 100 review limit- I feel like I should do something special, but I don't know what! I already accept prompts, so...any ideas?_

_Anyways, here's the request from Tianne, who asked for d'Artagnan overhearing the musketeers talking about a mission gone wrong and he thinks they blame him. Also, I incorporated Debbie's request for a tortured d'Artagnan. _

_WARNING: This mentions a bit of graphic torture, so fair warning. Also, this takes a bit of a dark turn._

* * *

In the end, it turned out to be one huge misunderstanding._ Not that it makes much of a difference now_, Athos scoffed as he watched d'Artagnan in sleep, face relaxed now and void of pain. _Not much of a difference at all._

The mission itself had been fairly simple- go and collect the Count of Demoire for questioning, as he was witness to one of the serious "crimes" against the Cardinal who, of course, managed to coax King Louis into sending his musketeers and spare the Red Guards the trouble. It turned out that they'd been provided with a false address by the Cardinal and it was a complete trap, and they were utterly outnumbered.

Now, d'Artagnan wasn't often beaten- hotheaded and impulsive, yes, but willing to retreat of give up? Never. Of course it was his inflated pride that did this to him- something that Athos was determined to beat out of his young friend- and d'Artagnan often had problems following orders when they intercepted his code of morals.

Like now.

There was a man- not a hostage, a servant, and therefore something of property- being held at sword point, the blade insistently digging into his throat. It was their chance to get out of there and by stroke of immense luck survive, but of course d'Artagnan, unable to leave anyone flat (an admirable, stupid trait) blatantly refused to leave the man behind.

"I won't leave him to die!" D'Artagnan shouted, eyes flashing. Athos's lips curled.

"D'Artagnan," he gritted, "that man is the Count's property- he will not kill a servant for no reason. Trust me on this."

But d'Artagnan was already running back, sword at the ready, launching into battle. "He's an idiot," Aramis hissed, pulling his own sword from it's sheath.

"What's worse," Porthos said, pursing his lips, "he's our idiot. Duck!"

And the battle began, and it took everything the musketeers had not to just keel over and die right then- musket fire and swords clashing and blades singing and and adrenaline dancing through his veins as shivers raced up his spine-

He ducked and dodged and jumped and tumbled and still it wasn't enough- wasn't enough-

A hoarse shout as d'Artagnan slashed the man holding the servant on the back, and he fell; grunts and small screams continued until miraculously, unbelievable, amazingly, all their enemies were dead and they remained standing.

"Is anyone hurt?" Athos yelled to his companions, already running to d'Artagnan because that boy was just an astounding kind of stupid, "What," he snarled, "were you thinking, running into battle like that?" He grabbed d'Artagnan's upper arm in a harsh grip, and the boy didn't try to fight. "Come on. _Mon dieu!_ You will be lucky if we ever let you out of the garrison on missions ever again." D'Artagnan lowered his eyes and Athos bypassed their companions, who made no move to stop him. "If you're going to jeopardize our lives and our mission, then don't come at all."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them and knew he couldn't take them back.

D'Artagnan's eyes- which were moments ago ridden with guilt- ignited, the flames within them of hurt and even, Athos was surprised to see, betrayal.

"I'm sorry if I wasn't going to leave a poor man to die," d'Artagnan hissed, and Athos felt his anger bristling again from where it had been edging towards regret.

"You fool of a boy," he snarled and d'Artagnan flinched. Ever since he had been attacked by the red guards, he had been uncomfortable being called 'boy'. Athos realized in that one moment that he was actually seeking to wound d'Artagnan, not rebuke him. He persisted anyway. "The man was a servant- the Count would not waste such a man on something so ridiculous-"

"Athos, I don't think you quite realize what 'not doing anything' means!" D'Artagnan shouted. "For God's sakes! It reminded me of-" he cut himself off abruptly, eyes wide with what he'd just revealed.

Athos was stupefied, another insult frozen at his lips. Oh_, of course.._.he was such a cruel person, thinking that d'Artagnan was hot headed when really he was acting on the instinct in his heart-

_good hearted like Thomas, you fool-_

He took a deep breath, outstretched a hand. "D'Artagnan, I-"

But d'Artagnan shook his head, bangs flying into his face, and stormed away towards the horses, where he climbed upon his yellow speckled mare and clicked her into a gallop.

The musketeers watched him go.

**…**

_But that was another mistake,_ Athos thought quietly to himself as he returned the wet cloth to d'Artagnan's burning forehead._ We did not have the good sense to go after him._

D'Artagnan muttered something in sleep and Athos found himself once again ducking down to hear the words that spilled from his young companion's lips- unbridled, unfiltered. Vulnerable and angry and hurt all alike, and they made Athos's heart twist.

"'Thos," he moaned, his feet tangling in the covers as he thrashed, and Athos recognized the hand movements d'Artagnan were making as those of sparring, "I'm s'rry, I'll- do-b-etter, I'm sor-ry, I'm-"

His eyes softening as his gut wrenched painfully, Athos soothed, "hush, d'Artagnan. There is nothing to be sorry for."

And trust d'Artagnan, even in a battered and fevered state, to be able to argue. "N-no, I'm- it- m'fault- so sorry-"

He smoothed back d'Artagnan bangs away from his forehead, and the young man calmed almost instantly. Athos was not sure if the action was familiar to d'Artagnan before he'd begun to do it, for him to react so instinctually and calm, but it was effective and Athos didn't dare address it in the light of day. For him, it was something he'd always do to Thomas when he was frightened or ill or injured.

_So alike, he and Thomas,_ Athos thought fondly, ignoring the swell of agony in his chest at the thought of his blood brother. _Always getting into mischief._

"You know," he said aloud to a sleeping (_unconscious- he tosses and laughs in sleep he is too still-)_ d'Artagnan, "Thomas was just like you. So full of life and energy. And I see the longing glances you get when Gascony is mentioned. I'm not as oblivious as people would say." He paused, but d'Artagnan remained still, wheezing breaths into and out of his lungs.

"Of course," he continued, "Thomas never knew Lupiac in Gascony, but he did so love the trees and the fields of our manor. There was this place he'd go when upset or sad or just because- our parents did not know about it, and not even my...wife, it was so secret. He'd tugged on my sleeve one day and said, "Athos, I have to show you something!" like it was the most sacred thing in the world."

Still. He didn't know what he'd expect; d'Artagnan would not wake up for the memories of a scarred man. Still. "And he led me to this lake a few acres into our manor. It was beautiful, surrounded by huge wispy willow trees that barely brushed at some of the clearest water I've ever seen a lake have. Flowers were in blossom and the grass swayed with the gentle wind. I was astonished that, in all my years of exploring the land of my manor, I'd never come across it."

"After he died I followed the exact path he took me on, wishing for peace and solitude and the lightness of heart that the innocent place gave me. But for the life of me, I must have wandered around for hours before giving up. I could not find it."

He cast a thoughtful look to his companion, smoothing back the hair again and wetting the cloth. "Perhaps you would be able to find it," he murmured. "Perhaps only people with the same innocence can find that place."

**...**

"Well, that was fun," Aramis said, wiping his sword and sheathing it. "Where do think d'Artagnan's gone?"

"We should go find him," Porthos said. Athos tried to ignore the burst of shame that boiled his insides. "He's reckless and there are still some of the Count's men crawling these woods."

"Mm," Aramis agreed as he went and hoisted himself up into the saddle, "and it's not as though our young companion made a quiet exit, is it?"

Athos swallowed the lump forming in his throat, and his two friends gave him sidelong looks. "Athos," Aramis said quietly, "you know he saw his-"

"Yes, Aramis," he gritted, closing his eyes. "I know he saw his father."

Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances, but said nothing, tailing the clear tracks that d'Artagnan gifted them with. He knew how to cover up horse tracks and still he left them there, for the musketeers to find and follow. If possible, Athos felt worse.

They came across a clearing, a stream running through it, and found d'Artagnan kneeling by the bank, cupping water into his hands and taking slow slips as the other held his water skin, refilling it. They jumped from their horses and made their way over to him, and he stiffened when he sensed them near.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis said agreeably as he came up beside his friend, refilling his own water skin in pleasant silence.

"Aramis," d'Artagnan replied, and it seemed to diffuse some of the tension. "What are we going to tell Treville?" Everyone heard the silent but not unspoken "I'm sorry" within the words. _I'll return with you. You are my friends. I am sorry I did not listen._

_Idiot boy,_ Athos thought, but it was filled with no malice.

**...**

D'Artagnan coughed harshly, and Athos could practically hear his lungs rattle in his chest. Athos tried to quell the panic rising into his throat. "How is he?"

He nearly jumped at Aramis's voice behind him, and he sighed, bathing d'Artagnan's brow again. "Getting worse," he replied, sounding gruff to cover his worry. Aramis must have heard this.

"He's strong, Athos. He'll get through this."

"He cannot be strong with no hope," Athos pointed out, and Aramis shrugged.

"He may not have believed we were there to save him, Athos, but do you remember his words? 'I knew it'. He knew we'd come. He just hadn't believed we were actually there."

"Why is that?" Athos snapped, then calmed when d'Artagnan made a distressed noise, his hand returning to the long brown locks. "Why was he not believing we'd saved him?"

Aramis gave him a look. "Take heart, Athos," he said. "For perhaps he had dreamed it so many times, he could not believe his eyes."

**...**

The ride back was silent but not tense, the musketeers and their friend slipping back into the familiar routine of coming back from a mission. They reported back to Treville their findings, changed out of their travel clothing, and went out drinking.

D'Artagnan was feeling guilty enough as it was for reacting so childishly, and was astoundingly grateful towards his friends for dropping it so easily. He promised himself that he would never disappoint them like that again, as he didn't want any of them to get hurt- emotionally or physically- and he certainly did not want to be a burden.

He was just returning with the extra drinks he'd been sent to fetch- another little brother duty, he imagined- when the voice he heard and the words he distinguished stopped him dead in his tracks, the ale sloshing in the mugs.

"He should not have done what he did," Aramis conceded, and Porthos nodded.

"Aye, the lad could have been killed, but you must say Athos-"

"It was a foolish move," Athos allowed, "and he was not willing to listen, the hotheaded child. But my comment back there-"

"Sounded incredibly sincere," Aramis pointed out, and Athos's head dipped.

"I think so too, but I did not mean it like that. If d'Artagnan is endangering us or the mission, we will have to be willing to-"

D'Artagnan had heard enough and, quickly placing the drinks on another table and ducking his head, slipped out of the tavern, his cheeks aflame and conscience heavier than it had ever been. But the way his companions had spoken about him- like he was cumbersome- made something inside him snap and fill with agony, and he forced his chin to stop trembling as he slowly made his way back to Bonacieux's in the darkness.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders, ashamed. Yes, he'd seen his father and reacted before he'd thought about anything, finding himself launching forward before he could think better of it. It had been an instinctive, not a chosen reaction, and Athos's words were right. He was hotheaded and arrogant, and did endanger them.

Perhaps it was too late to make it up to his friends- if he could still call them that. He could understand why they'd string him along before giving him up- to make the blow less harsh. They were gentle souls in that way, but d'Artagnan wanted no sympathy nor pity.

He found his eyes filling and angrily swiped at them- he'd lost plenty of friends in his lifetime, and this would be no different. Friends came and went, sometimes without control or want, and this was merely the way of things. He could control it now no less than he could control anything else in the universe.

It still stung, though, and some deep, untraveled part of d'Artagnan's heart whispered to him that he was wrong and that their relationship went past _friends_.

For the sake of his feelings, he ignored it.

And the idea struck him so suddenly he was literally thrown off balance, his hands flying out to steady himself against the wall. Of course- that was so simple, he could do it in a heartbeat and prove that he could be useful-

Treville and King Louis had been extremely disappointed that they could not find the Count of Demoire to convict him of his crimes against the Cardinal (and thus against the King) and all d'Artagnan had to do was find the man, who was undoubtedly still in Paris spreading lies. D'Artagnan had experience- albeit a small amount, but experience all the same- with men of the sort, and he knew that they were the type to stick around until the job was done.

Nodding to himself and marvelling at the fact the universe had, for some strange reason, granted him a second chance, he drew up every piece of information he could think of about the Count, from the clues he'd left at his false manor, and the evidence provided by the Cardinal.

To be honest, it had been a complete accident, stumbling upon their hideaway- he'd seen a man who'd looked remotely like the description provided of the Count from the Cardinal and followed him, and found a whole network of underground people spreading treasonous lies about the Cardinal and the King.

He didn't count on the Count having partners- seven of them, actually- but he supposed he should have considered it. After all, it wasn't possible to spread such lies on one's own- one needed witness to agree, people to start the mobs, people who would agree with someone.

And he certainly didn't account on being caught as he entered.

**...**

D'Artagnan was murmuring in his sleep again, his fever steady but not decreasing. Athos found himself growing desperate, raking his hand through d'Artagnan's hair almost harshly to calm him. It wasn't working and d'Artagnan seemed inconsolable.

The name he called out for was gut wrenching and made Athos's heart twist. "_Mère_, please-"

"Shh," he soothed, making a conscious effort to make his hands gentle. "Hush, d'Artagnan. Be at peace. I am here, and I will not leave."

"_Mère_-"

"Shh...Shh…"

The response was garbled but understandable, and sounded so genuinely frightened and confused that Athos's felt the first actual spark of terrible sorrow. _"Mère, où êtes-vous allé?"_

_Mother, where did you go?_

**...**

The stinging on his cheek was painful but not unfamiliar as d'Artagnan roused himself from slumber, clawing his way to the surface of consciousness. Another slap. His eyes cracked open to reveal a dank, dark room bathed in only a sole glowing torch on the far wall. There were no windows and but one door.

"Well look here, mates," someone- the Count of Demoire- leered, "we 'ave 'ourselves a pet 'ere, now don't we?"

D'Artagnan's brows furrowed as he tried to recall how he'd gotten here. Oh right. Hit over the head after ridiculously going in without backup. He smiled wolfishly at his captors. "Me, a pet? I apologize, but I clearly bite. I also bark, but of course, that's irrelevant, considering we're a far way from where anyone can hear us."

"What're you talkin' about, boy?" Another hissed, and d'Artagnan took a deep breath. That term still bothered him. "We're in the secret layer of the sewers, you little-"

"Petre," another snapped, and the one called Petre fell silent. D'Artagnan tried to hide his smugness, but judging from the force of the punch he received, he'd failed. "Don't give the boy any ideas!"

"Ideas?" He asked innocently. "Oh, no ideas. After all, he can't give me any he's never had."

It took the seven crooks- not counting the Count of Demoire (who, obviously, was running the entire operation) to digest the fact that he had just insulted 'Petre'. Another snarled and raised his fist, and the onslaught of punches and kicks began.

D'Artagnan curled, and when he tried to throw his hands over his head he realized they were bound behind his back. Ahh. That's why his arms hurt so much, then.

A sharp punch to the cheekbone had his head snapping to side- ahn, his neck- and another kick to the stomach had him doubling over, falling to his side as the kicks and punches and jabs continued, and d'Artagnan tried to contain his pain filled grunts (whimpers, if was being honest with himself) but by the end his face was bloody and his whole body was aflame.

"Now," the Count leered once again, "what was that you said about barking?"

D'Artagnan pursed his lips and took a deep breath, sending a silent prayer. I_f you're listening, I need some backup. Like right about now would be nice._

And he couldn't help the hope in his heart as he peered around the Count's body, seeking Porthos's large frame by the door.

His heart sank when the beatings began again and his musketeers were nowhere to be seen.

**…**

By now, d'Artagnan had been missing for two days, and his friends were beginning to panic, alarm always tinging the words about d'Artagnan. Constance claimed that her lodger had not returned since he'd changed the night he'd returned from the mission, but that she'd contact them right away should she see them. She'd given descriptions of d'Artagnan to her lady friends, who had seen nothing.

Athos reported d'Artagnan's absence to Treville, and he'd put the musketeers in the garrison on alert. The musketeers had tried to track their young friend without luck; it seemed that this time, d'Artagnan did not want to be found.

They found his mistake around a week later in a paper under his mattress in the Bonacieux house. He must have snuck past Constance and Bonacieux through his bedroom window or in the very wee hours of the morning, because Constance had need seen him for a week. Everyone was incredibly high strung, and the paper read all the evidence that d'Artagnan had mulled over that he'd collected.

"Oh, that idiot," Aramis said darkly as he threw down his gloves and ran frustrated fingers through his hair. "That idiotic child."

"Aye," Porthos agreed gravelly, glaring at the paper as if it had caused him personal misfortune. "But at least we know where he's gone."

"We don't know where he's gone," Athos corrected. "We know what he was after."

**…**

Within the week, d'Artagnan had been given treatment fit for not even a prisoner- dry drowned, burned, whipped. His fingernails had been pulled clean off on the second day, and his hands felt raw. His wrists were chafed to blood from the too tight rope and his arms had gone numb in the fifth hour.

His captors did so love to torment him, and d'Artagnan had learned on the fourth day that not responding got him water, whereas retort brought burns. They littered his torso in batches, the crooks having heated up their blades and pressed them carelessly, remorselessly to the sensitive skin.

He was fairly sure he had a severe concussion, if the way they kept smacking him in the head with their sword butts to knock him out was anything to go by. He missed many time spans that he couldn't recall later, and it constantly felt like he was rocking back and forth even when he was sitting. The world was distorted and dizzy and he was nauseous, but he was hit so hard when he did throw up that he didn't dare to do so again, swallowing it instead.

All in all, d'Artagnan was having a really terrible week.

The hope that kept him alive and going on, though, was the knowledge that his friends were looking for him out there and wouldn't give up. He knew that he'd been a disappointment and he knew that it was probably unlikely that he'd become a musketeer now (not when he'd proved to be so incompetent, so weak) but he trusted their friendship more than he trusted himself, and he held onto his faith.

After the sixth day and the door remained closed, though, d'Artagnan was losing hope.

His skin grew alabaster with blood loss, as another favorite torture of the Count's was to "slash and burn" he'd said. He'd slash d'Artagnan's skin to the bone and then, when the Count felt he'd bled enough (to the point where d'Artagnan was seeing dark spots in the corners of his vision) he'd "cauterize" it.

It was pure torture.

And then on the third day Petre, Alain, Aldric (the second in command, d'Artagnan learned quickly) Cyril and Quille discovered that they could break bones and, well, d'Artagnan could not hold it in any longer.

He screamed a lot on day three.

His abused muscles quivered unstoppably in the damp, miserable cold of the secret passage under the city, and d'Artagnan's mind wandered back to somethings in the past- sometimes he'd think he'd see his father, sometimes he'd see Constance. Mostly he'd see his musketeers and feel guilty that he'd worried them.

He'd dreamt about his rescue so many times- an escape in his subconscious that he did not receive during the day- that when he'd wake up to his torture again, he'd wished he'd never have those hopeful dreams at all. They only made him long for something that was just barely out of reach: comfort.

D'Artagnan, in the rare times that he was alone when the Count of Demoire and his team were spreading more lies, would catalog his new injuries. It was a way of keeping himself sane and keeping track of the days- the more he'd had since a few hours- or minutes, there was no way to tell time- let him know what day it was. If they paused for what seemed like a while and came in and wailed on him for several hours, that counted as a day.

His original injuries were easy, as they were the ones he'd had to remember the most frequently (though remembering things were sort of hard at the moment). He had a concussion, that much was obvious; he was sure his arms were dislocated now at the shoulders, and that he had at least six broken ribs that rattled every time he breathed. He had various burns and lacerations all over his body, but the one that hurt the most was in the center of his back, where it brushed against his jacket every time he moved or shifted.

He was positive his ankle was broken or sprained- it was terribly sore with the position he was stuck in- and he thought that the opposite knee was dislocated, though he couldn't be sure. Bruises littered his body like splatters of paint from an idle artist on canvas, and he truly wasn't sure what his face looked like. It was just one constant throb.

He found himself praying- begging- pleading for rescue.

_Please, God. Please help me. I know that it may be hard to help me, after all I've done- but I thought we all were the children of God. Please._

There was no answer.

**...**

They discovered the base by accident. Once they realized it was there, though, they didn't hesitate to tell Treville and get a few extra men from the garrison. They went in, guns blazing and swords at the ready, fighting the eight pathetic men- including the Count- who were standing over a beaten, battered, and barely recognizable body- but Athos's heart flew to his throat as he saw the mop of hair atop the head.

"My God," he whispered, and Aramis followed his gaze.

"God in Heaven," he breathed, running forward as the other musketeers took care of the rest of the men and Porthos guarded the doorway into the room. The chance that there were more men was all too evident. "D'Artagnan!" The body remained still and silent. "Please," Aramis whispered, gently turning his friend. D'Artagnan was pale as sheet and as cold as ice, and Athos felt his blood freeze in his veins.

"Take off your jackets, all of you," Aramis commanded, his voice steady but his pale and frantic complexion giving away his sheer panic, "and hand them to me. We need to get him warm." Athos had never shrugged his jacket from his shoulders faster in his life, and Detries and Malloy handed theirs over as well, tying the Count's hands behind his back and leading him out. Finally.

Porthos's was the heaviest and that went over d'Artagnan's upper body as Athos cut the bindings on d'Artagnan's hands. They were blue.

"Rub those, Athos," Aramis instructed sternly and Athos scrambled to do as told. Aramis managed to get d'Artagnan in all the layers, gritting his teeth as his hands hovered over his young friend. "I don't even know where to start," he said softly, and for the first time in a long time he sounded lost.

"Get him to wake up," Athos said, then gestured with his chin towards the puddle of blood under d'Artagnan's head. "And check that out."

His heart was pounding so hard in his chest that he thought he may break a rib. Aramis complied, drawing d'Artagnan's hair away. There was undoubtedly a gash, proven by Aramis's exhale of disbelief. "He must have been tortured," he said quietly, and Athos recognized the fire in Aramis's expression. His blood, from when it was frozen, began to boil. There was going to be hell to pay.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis whispered, cupping d'Artagnan's cheeks in his hands and rubbing his thumb over bruised and cut cheekbones, "please, d'Artagnan, wake up."

It took a moment for Athos to realize that Aramis was pleading, actually pleading, with their friend, and Athos felt a new sort of fear. If Aramis was so frightened and panicked...it was bad.

Very bad.

D'Artagnan started to violently that Athos jumped to help hold him down, but he thrashed and flung in the older musketeer's grip. His eyes widening in remembrance as he took in Athos's features, his face fell and he turned away. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye. "I am tired," he sobbed weakly. "Let me be now. Torment me no longer, please."

Confused and blatantly full of terror, Athos choked, "we are here, d'Artagnan. We are here to help. It is us."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "It is not you- not actually. I am tired of these dreams and waking to hell. Please...go away. You cannot save me. I know now-"

"D'Artagnan!" Athos snapped, and d'Artagnan turned towards him wearily as Athos clutched at d'Artagnan's hand, "does this feel fake? Does this feel like imaginary?" He clutched it tighter and d'Artagnan winced.

"N-no…"

"Exactly. You are fine. I swear it." Hope swelled in his chest, but was dashed as d'Artagnan turned away again.

"I knew it," he whispered, his eyelids fluttering closed. "I...knew…"

Athos cursed, turning to Aramis and crying, "help him, Aramis!"

"I'm trying!" His friend shouted, his hands a blur as they set bones and dislocations and inspected burns- _burns_- on d'Artagnan's battered body. D'Artagnan was either so unconscious and out of it that he felt nothing, or he was simply too exhausted to cry out. Either way, he was silent.

"I cannot treat him here," Aramis muttered urgently, and Porthos was suddenly there and lifting d'Artagnan with tender arms and cradling him against his chest and then there were racing, racing to Aramis's apartments and calling for physicians and asking to him to just _hang on, d'Artagnan-_

_Don't lose him he is your chance please Thomas come on help him help him I was supposed to protect him-_

When they arrived and d'Artagnan was placed (_gently, oh so gently)_ onto the bed and he was stripped down to his smalls, the damage was revealed and made all of them- from where they were all scrambling to do something- pause in horror.

"Oh God," Aramis whispered again, taking burn cream and smearing it on any place d'Artagnan had a burn, placing a copious amount in the center of his back. They, bandaging his middle and accounting for his broken ribs, Aramis moved onto his ankle, hissing in sympathy and wrapping it. "Broken," he murmured, moving to his knee, "dislocated," he moved to d'Artagnan's wrist, "sprained."

Athos's eyes welled up with tears, but he blinked them away and stroked his hand through d'Artagnan's hair.

"And all of these are infected," he sighed as he smeared more of a different paste on d'Artagnan's cuts.

D'Artagnan remained still and silent, and Athos had worry festering deep in his heart.

And then Aramis had fallen silent and looked up, and tears had caught in the firelight.

"He's dying."

**…**

And Athos's thumb stroked across the back of d'Artagnan's hand, more for his soothing than d'Artagnan's. "Come on, d'Artagnan," he whispered. "You must make it."

D'Artagnan was still.

* * *

_...So I wasn't sure if I should kill him or not, so...here you go; really vague ending. :) _

ANYWAYS, thanks for the 100+ reviews and I appreciate it all! Thanks for reading and please leave me a comment on your thoughts!


	12. Show You Something

_Hey everybody! Thanks again so much for all the reviews, favorites, and follows from all of you. I love all the feedback and I'm so glad that you're all enjoying this so much._

_So yesterday I posted that chapter, and everyone was simultaneously like, "NO NO NO DON'T KILL HIM" So...this happened. Yay for close encounters with death! **cheers**_

_ALSO, IMPORTANT: Yesterday I got a review from Candy Cakes asking me IF I ACCEPTED MORE THAN ONE PROMPT FROM THE SAME PERSON. THE ANSWER IS YES. Give me them all! Even those really funny ones floating around idly in your brains where they all break out into song! If it's within acceptable boundaries (as in, no M rated themes) then I can probably make it happen! _

_Thanks again and enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

"Athos! Athos!" D'Artagnan exclaimed, laughing and tugging on his sleeve, "come quick! I have to show you something!"

Led along by the hand, Athos grinned at the sight of his young companion so carefree, watching as d'Artagnan pranced through the tall grass like a small child, boyhood sitting comfortably on his face. Forced to run with the speed of d'Artagnan's feet, Athos was pulled along towards a patch of trees in the middle of his manor's field, another astonished smile lighting his lips.

"D'Artagnan," he whispered, but the younger man wasn't listening as to him as he pulled Athos into the glade, "I know this place…"

D'Artagnan laughed as the trees finally broke around them to reveal the pristine lake that Athos so remembered, the beautiful flowers and the lily pads floating delicately along the surface; fireflies flittered through the area, and the sun left patches of bright light on the vibrant swaying grass from where it broke through the leaves of the willows.

Clad in only their shirts and trousers, d'Artagnan exclaimed, "come on, Athos! We should swim!" And, without further ado, threw himself into the cool water, beaming when he surfaced.

Athos chuckled. "You look like a drowned rat!" He claimed, his voice teasing but playful as he followed d'Artagnan's lead and jumped into the water, getting d'Artagnan more soaked.

"Athos," d'Artagnan said, sounding distantly suddenly, "Athos…"

Athos's grin faded. "What is it, d'Artagnan? What's the matter?"

_"Athos...Athos…"_ he sounded further now, and perhaps a little more frantic, and Athos called out for him, reaching for him. There was a pressure on his shoulders and then-

"Athos. Wake up, for God's sake; wake up!"

Opening his eyes, he was blinded with the sudden light of the sun, and he threw his hands up over his face. Aramis's amused and relieved voice came to him again. "Athos, thank God. It's morning, my friend; the sun is shining. D'Artagnan has made it through the night."

Before he could check it a grin split across his lips, and he jumped from his seat in the rickety old chair, turning to the bed and finding d'Artagnan's soft brown doe eyes peering at him sleepily.

"'Thos?"

His hands trembled as his heart filled with gratitude towards anyone he could think of- Porthos for carrying d'Artagnan so fast, Aramis for treating him so efficiently, d'Artagnan for being as stubborn as ever against death and not giving up, Treville for putting the garrison on alert, the musketeers who'd arrested the Count, God for giving him the third chance to do right by a brother-

"Welcome back, d'Artagnan," he whispered, laying his hand across d'Artagnan's forehead. "Sleep now. You'll be alright."

"'Thos...'M sorry…"

Athos chuckled breathlessly. "You fool," he said softly. "You damned fool."

Aramis spoke up softly, saying, "d'Artagnan?" The look on Aramis's face had d'Artagnan's smile melting almost instantly. "I...your ankle," he began, "it was a severe break, and I did all I could. But when it was broken it had begun to heal at a wrong angle, being held in the one position under you so long, bent like that. I did all I could, but..."

Athos's mouth ran dry, and he shot Aramis a look, which the pious man leveled evenly. "I...what are you saying?" D'Artagnan whispered, tears reflecting in his eyes.

Aramis grimaced, ducking his head and shielding his face from sight. Athos knew that Aramis's expression had crumpled from where it was hidden in his locks of long hair. "I'm sorry, d'Artagnan," he said quietly. "But you may never walk correctly again."

**...**

The next morning proved difficult, as d'Artagnan had trouble moving about on his injured ankle and was too stubborn to allow himself to be helped. It seemed that even with the threat of being unable to walk should he jar the ankle wrong once was not enough to stop their young friend, and they were trying to keep him as still as possible.

Aramis seemed like a saint during these times. "D'Artagnan," he said patiently (a fourth time, Athos marvelled), "until your crutches are made and fitted for your size, you cannot put pressure on that, much less move about on it. Let us help you."

Huffing and trying not to wince as he pulled on his burns, d'Artagnan grudgingly conceded, allowing Aramis to help him into a new shirt (as the other nightshirt was soaked with sweat from his fever, which had broken sometime in the early morning hours) and coughed roughly into his sleeve, doubling over and hunching over his ribs, then crying out as he pulled on the burn on his back.

Aramis was quick to steady him and straighten him, even through the coughing fit. "Alright, alright," he soothed, as d'Artagnan's hands clutched at his shirt, panic glazed eyes pleading with his friend for air, "it's alright, it will be over soon. Shh. Shh, my friend. Shh."

Gradually the coughing tapered off, and just as d'Artagnan was calming down, he surged forward and threw up over the side of the bed.

Aramis held d'Artagnan's sweat slicked hair away from his face as he retched, and wiped his friend's mouth with a rag when he finished. "At least my boots aren't new," he joked, and d'Artagnan let out a breathless, barely-a-laugh.

Athos felt something in his chest squeeze uncomfortably, and he went forward to take a place next to d'Artagnan on the bed. Exhausted eyes found his own, and before he realized what he was doing he was raking fingers through d'Artagnan's hair again.

He was asleep so fast that it had Aramis startled when he turned back from where he'd been pouring their young companion a glass of water.

**...**

"Athos, come on," d'Artagnan complained, "I don't need help with eating!"

Athos glared at him, plopping the spoon back into the stew Constance had been nice enough to fix for her lodger. "Oh really?" He said, arching an eyebrow. "Fine then. Raise your arms higher than your midsection, hm?"

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to argue, paused, then thought better of it and his mouth shut again. With a sigh he settled back against the pillows of the bed, crossing his arms and glaring at his mentor, looking for all the world like a petulant child. Athos had to consciously keep himself in check to refrain from smiling.

D'Artagnan reluctantly opened his mouth again, his hunger winning the war against pride and, satisfied, Athos picked up the spoon again.

**…**

"Athos, come on!" D'Artagnan said excitedly, grabbing his mentor's sleeve and tugging it urgently, "I have to show you something!"

Baffled but amused, Athos followed his young friend through the underbrush of trees, ducking around hedges and watching d'Artagnan run through the tall swaying grass, as if he'd lived there all his life. Boyhood sat on his features.

D'Artagnan turned to grin at him, and before them was the pristine lake Athos so remembered, the willows sweeping to brush at the water, the flowers in bloom and beautiful, the grass the most vibrant green-

"Athos. Come on. Wake up."

"Come _on,_ Athos!" D'Artagnan cried cheerfully, "let's go swimming!"

"Athos, I _r-r-really_ need your h-h-help right n-now. Seriously. W-wake up."

With a smile, he was following his young friend, his mind fondly wrenched back to memories of Thomas-

It was the sharp pain in his forehead that brought him back fully, and he jumped up to find d'Artagnan looking at him with an equally annoyed and desperate expression. "Athos," he said, and Athos was concerned to find his teeth chattering, "the- w-w-window is op-p-p-pen and I c-c-couldn't close i-it-"

All but sprinting to the window he'd opened to air out the room, he bolted it shut and covered d'Artatgnan with extra blankets. His young friend sighed in pleasure as the warmth slowly returned to his chilled body, and his head canted as he stared at Athos with something akin to interest in his gaze.

"It was hard to wake you. What were you dreaming about? I heard you mumbling."

"What did you wake me with?" He wondered aloud, partially to change the subject and partially out of honest curiosity.

D'Artagnan gave him a knowing look but let it be, pointing to the stray boot in the corner of the room. At Athos's shocked glare, d'Artagnan blushed and ducked his head. "It was the only thing I could reach."

And then they were both laughing.

**…**

"Hey, lad," Porthos said, shrugging off his hat and stomping his boots in the doorway, "sorry I haven't been around much- the King's been sending us here and there, and know I wanted to be here."

D'Artagnan gave his friend a sunny smile. "That's alright. How many hunts this week?"

Porthos snorted, throwing himself down into the chair at d'Artagnan's bedside. "Four. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was concerned about you."

D'Artagnan's lips quirked. "He's probably concerned for his own life, seeing as I'm always tumbling down mountains for him and the like."

Porthos laughed. "Aye, lad, that you are, you foolish thing. Here, I've smuggled you a present." Perking up at his friend's words, d'Artagnan couldn't help his grin as his friend pulled out a bottle of wine from the folds of his shrugged jacket, and grabbed two goblets from the dresser which held the water. "The best kind of pain medicine there is," Porthos said as he handed d'Artagnan a glass.

He raised it in acknowledgement. "I'll drink to that," he agreed, and then chinked glasses together before drinking deeply.

They didn't speak about the threat of d'Artagnan's impairment, didn't even speak of the injuries at all. Porthos launched right into stories of his friend's other companions in the garrison and their worry, Treville's gruff concern, and the missions he'd been sent on that week as they together drained the bottle of wine.

It was near the end of his sixth cup that d'Artagnan's head drooped, his eyelids half shut in contentment and the goblet tipping from his hands. Porthos caught it, his voice staying exactly the same as it had been in the same smooth timbre, and he watched with a small, fond smile as d'Artagnan's eyes slowly slipped shut.

Then he tenderly supported d'Artagnan's upper body as he slid him down onto his back, completely against the mattress, d'Artagnan only stirring to assure himself that it was only Porthos.

Porthos stayed for a while.

**…**

Nightmares were evident, especially after the torture d'Artagnan had undergone, but most of them were silent. Tears would stream down their youngest's face as he barely whimpered in sleep, and if you weren't paying attention, you'd miss it. The terror on his face.

It was a good thing the musketeers were observant.

It was around two weeks into d'Artagnan's bed rest that Aramis had finally been given the night shift, and when it began, he wasn't exactly sure what to do. D'Artagnan had been getting plenty of sleep, but the dark purple circles around his sunken, weary eyes spoke of different exhaustion. Different wounds.

And so when d'Artagnan began to whimper, tears gathering at the corners of his lashes, Aramis was reluctant to wake him up, instead repeating the action he'd seen Athos do a million times before. He gently slid his fingers through d'Artagnan silky locks, murmuring, "be at peace, little brother. You are safe. You will make it."

And d'Artagnan was still.

**…**

When he'd recovered enough so that the burns were barely pink scars and the lacerations had blended into white strips of skin and he could put pressure on his foot again (safely; the relief he'd felt when d'Artagnan's ankle healed correctly could not be compared to the ecstatic look on d'Artagnan's face, and this was when Athos realized d'Artagnan had hid his worry in an attempt to be strong). Athos had pulled him (_finally_!) from bed and threw him his travel cloak and jacket, saying, "put those on and meet me in the stables. Your horse is saddled."

D'Artagnan trotted after his older friend, a furrow in his brow. "Athos, where are we going?" He asked, and Athos turned to him with a smile on his face that spoke so much more than what was next said.

"Come on," he said, swinging himself up into the saddle of his own horse. "I have to show you something."

Then he tugged on d'Artagnan's sleeve to prompt him onto his horse, and pressed his mare into a gallop that d'Artagnan followed willingly.

* * *

_So the threat of impairment was suggested by _**fariedragon.**_  
_

**ALSO, olakwiat19, READ THIS. **_Hey! Sorry that note sounded vaguely like, dark and scary, but I wanted to get your attention. Thank you so much for your review and the time it took to write it- I really appreciate it- and if it's easier, you can write in your native language! As long as I know what it is, I can make it work! Only if you're more comfortable though. _

_I also have a few people PMing me on their opinions because they're a little hesitant to leave reviews, so that option is always on the table. Either way I'm sorry I could not go with your idea this time- I felt like the mood had to be of concerned musketeers, and so I couldn't find the situation in character where I could make them go out somewhere and leave d'Artagnan all on his own :( sorry._

**Tianne:** _You know, are you actually extremely surprised that when I joined, I realized the Dark Side lied about the cookies? Now there's just whump and the beautiful sense of accomplishment I feel when I cause you all anguish... (Just kidding. But I do feel a strange pride that I've moved some people to tears on some occasions, you know?)_


	13. Hat Trick!

_Hey everybody! I still can't believe the amount of feedback I get from all of you guys- you're all so amazing- and here's the BIRTHDAY chapter that Tianne requested so long ago! **cheers**_

_I did a fair bit of research for this chapter to find out when d'Artagnan was born, so for all who are interested: the REAL Charles Ogier de Batz de Castelmore, Comte d'Artagnan was born in 1611, but it didn't give me an exact date. He was born in Lupiac, France, and moved to Paris when he was nineteen years old. I made his birthday February 19th, which is Luke Pasqualino's (the ACTOR who plays d'Artagnan) birthday. Funny, huh?_

* * *

Alright, so d'Artagnan was an adult (sort of). And he knew what it was like to live on his own (sort of). And did he expect his friends to know everything about him by now? No. (Actually sort of though.)

So was it a surprise when he woke up and realized that it was the day of his birth- February nineteenth. He turned twenty today since the day he was born, and his heart was immediately heavy of the fact that no one- not his father, not his mother, not his siblings- was there to share it with him.

Shaking it off and deeming it as unimportant (though in reality he had to forcibly ignore the ache in his chest at the thought of being so alone) he rose and dressed himself for the day, pushing away the sorrow and reminding himself that he didn't care at all.

Wincing as he pushed his way through the nearly house (as the day was well before dawn), he came across a tired Constance, giving her a smile even as she sleepily reprimanded, "d'Artagnan, watch your sword." His sword sheath was torn at the bottom, allowing the tip to stick out slightly, and whenever it slammed against something it left a mark that she liked to complain about.

D'Artagnan merely gave her a smile and grabbed a baguette from the dining table on his way out, munching on it absently as he made his way to the garrison, walking in the first orange and red streaked skies of morning as the sun rose.

There was a good amount of snow on the ground that crunched underfoot, delicate flakes dancing from the sky, brushing affectionately against his shoulders and catching in his hair. Sighing and doing his best to forget the date and just enjoy the snowy day, he made his way into the garrison, greeting people as he went.

Aubin greeted him as he entered, clapping him on the shoulder and saying, "well, well, well, he returns! Couldn't resist my charm, could you?"

D'Artagnan sent his friend a cheeky smile as he passed, saying in response, "oh, Aubin; if that's what you call charm, I'd hate to see you when you're at your worst."

Aubin laughed. "Stay warm, d'Artagnan," he said, entering the garrison kitchens. D'Artagnan found his spirits lighter than before.

Pursing his lips and forcing down the loneliness that was rising in his heart, d'Artagnan walked further into the garrison and came across his three friends, blinking some more sleep from his eyes. "Well, if it isn't the fair Sleeping Beauty," Athos said, and d'Artagnan, though tired, was still witty.

"Athos, that's no way to talk about Aramis," he said and ignored Aramis's sputtered, "why are you dragging _me_ into this?!" "I'm sure he's self conscious enough already."

"I'm sorry, d'Artagnan," Aramis said smoothly in retort, "but do I look like a mirror to you?"

"No, Aramis, you don't," d'Artagnan replied without missing a beat. "But I'm sure I could get you one if you're so desperate to check your appearance, though." He turned to Athos. "You see? You've made him feel bad."

Athos glared at him, crossing his arms. "It was not I who insulted his masculinity, d'Artagnan, but you who redirected my original statement about you."

D'Artagnan nodded understandingly. "You're right; I should have teased Porthos, the least sensitive of all you heartless musketeers."

And then he ignored Porthos's choked, "too low a blow, lad!"

To his astonishment, he found himself smiling.

**...**

The rest of the day passed similarly to this, the musketeers bantering and breaking as many times as they were allowed and fooling around until Treville barked at them to _stop being such hooligans and get back to work, you ruffians!_

To which d'Artagnan had, on a whim, cheekily responded, "of course, Mother," which earned him a glare from his soon-to-be Captain and a round of claps from his friends all around the garrison. The cook even came out from the kitchen to give him a free baguette.

It wasn't until the training day had ended and Aubin had clapped him on the back in farewell that he remembered the date, his heart sinking. Right. Well, at least the day had passed in relative fun and he hadn't thought about his losses much. Despite the fact his friends hadn't know. Speaking of which- where were they, anyway?

"D'Artagnan," Treville called, his voice a growl, "come up this instant."

Swallowing and doing his best to disregard Ceron's, "oooh, you're going to get it for calling him 'Mother' today, d'Artagnan!" and Francoise's "good luck man; you're going to need it!" he climbed the steps up to Treville's apartments, biting his lip.

"Enter." It was bland and plainly spoken, but there was an underlying threat in the tone that had d'Artagnan cringing. Opening the door gingerly and trying not to let his hesitance show, d'Artagnan licked his lips-

and his mouth fell open with what greeted him.

"Shut your mouth d'Artagnan, you'll catch flies," Aramis said easily, coming around him to shut the door that d'Artagnan had left gaping open. D'Artagnan closed his mouth after a few moments, his eyes still wide.

"What? You've never seen a table of presents before?" Athos asked, and Aramis pushed him gently towards it.

"I- this- is this for me?" He whispered, and he forced back the small beginnings of tears in his eyes. He felt like he was always crying nowadays, and he was tired of it.

Porthos chuckled and clapped him on the back. "Aye, lad. It's all for you." There were six wrapped presents sitting innocently on the table, but to d'Artagnan, they were beautiful.

"I- I-"

'Thank you' didn't seem good enough for what he felt, and Athos said quietly in his ear, "it's alright. We know. Go on and open them, then."

D'Artagnan barely breathed and obeyed, Porthos pushing him into a seat. D'Artagnan wasn't sure where Treville went, just that he'd disappeared. "Treville…?"

Aramis smirked and Athos suppressed a laugh. "Ran from the room when he realized that we were doing vaguely nice things for you. Said you'd get all emotional and choked up."

D'Artagnan blushed and grabbed the present nearest him, and Porthos exclaimed, "mine!" With trembling fingers he pulled at the wrappings delicately, remembering his father's advice to save the paper for the next years. Porthos rolled his eyes, and Athos leaned forward and whispered, "just rip it, son. It's much more enjoyable that way."

And when he did so, d'Artagnan found that it was. It was a plain box, and when he managed to shimmy off the top, he found a single blue feather sitting there in the middle, folded delicately within some soft tissue. Although he didn't fully understand it he was sure it would come in use at some point (as Porthos's gifts always seemed to) so he looked up, grinned, and said, "thank you, Porthos. I'll have fun bugging Athos awake with this."

Aramis and Porthos burst into laughter whilst Athos cuffed him lightly over the head. "Next one, d'Artagnan," he commanded quietly, and d'Artagnan complied, picking up the next one.

"That's from Constance," Aramis said cheerfully, and all the musketeers enjoyed d'Artagnan's small blush and the duck of his head, and he opened it carefully, finding inside a new sheath for his sword.

"Oh Constance," he breathed, remembering her complaints about the tip of his sword that poked out his worn sheath. He brushed his fingers over the fine new one she'd gotten him. "Oh, Constance," he said again fondly, "anything for the sake of your furniture, hm?"

Aramis, Porthos, and Athos shared smiles as d'Artagnan moved to the next, opening it with a sort of reverence. "That's from me," Aramis said, and d'Artagnan cast a smile over his shoulder as he undid the top to the box to find...a small set of daggers of different sizes, each with a clip on the end.

Grinning, d'Artagnan turned back to his friend, who beamed at him. "I'm quite glad you like it, d'Artagnan. It's for the next time you're kidnapped, you can clip those in inconspicuous places and have a weapon to defend yourself with."

"These are brilliant," he breathed, his eyes twinkling. "Thank you."

He grabbed the next box, which had a simple and elegant card at the top that read:

_D'Artagnan,_

_you remind me much of the brother I once had, and so I figured it was suiting that you carried something of his although you did not know him. He was about your size and I think that this will serve you well._

_Athos_

Putting away the card and tenderly undoing the wrapping, d'Artagnan found a musket, ornately carved and undoubtedly expensive. It looked quite treasured but still equally brand new, polished to shine in the light of the evening sun. D'Artagnan's breath was stolen as he realized on the inside was carved, right next to the T.A. of Thomas's initials, a curvy C. D.

_Charles d'Artagnan._

He tried his best to blink back tears, turning, standing, and hugging his mentor tightly, trying to convey everything he couldn't say in the one gesture. By his response, Athos understood completely.

Sniffing and returning to the last present on the table, Athos said, "this one is from all of us- the whole garrison. Even the King."

D'Artagnan, blinking in astonishment because _why would the King want to gift him with something?_ undid the wrapping and pulled out a grey, elegant and curved hat with a broad cover and a band with some very expensive and ornate looking string around the top. It was beautiful- one of the most beautiful gifts d'Artagnan had ever received- and he said in awe, "the whole garrison-"

"Paid for it, yes," Aramis confirmed with a smile.

"That's what the-"

"Feather was for," Porthos said with a grin. "Aye, lad."

D'Artagnan was still in a state of disbelief. "And the King provided the-"

"String," Athos said quietly with a nod, "yes."

And tears he'd been holding back blurred his vision because he hadn't been forgotten- not at all, exactly the opposite- and his friends had been kind enough to-

"You are one of us, d'Artagnan," one of his brothers said from behind him, "and you are never alone."

And then, for the first time that day, he allowed himself to release the hold he had on his grief, letting it be replaced by the warmth of companionship.

* * *

_I'm going on a camping trip this weekend, so my next update should be somewhere around Monday. Thank you for reading, I always love suggestions, and please leave me a comment on your thoughts!_

_Tianne: I hope you liked the chapter and no, there are no cookies. There are a lot of stolen muffins from the Light Side, though, if you'd believe that._

_bearsrawesome: About time! (Just kidding). I'm excited and I'm already thinking about where I can take them! (My list of prompts though is literally over twenty five right now though, so it may be a while in coming because I'm trying to fulfill them in order.)_

_RangerMyra: Thanks! I was pretty proud of last chapter. _

_Madkatt: That should be coming up soon, I promise (because someone suggested almost the exact same thing, so it's all good). _

_Dagger Queen: OH MY GOD YES. JUST...YES. IT IS HAPPENING. YEP. YEPPPP._


	14. Snap

_Hey y'all! I wasn't eaten by a bear! (Always cause for celebration) and my camping trip was fun. Here is the chapter that **TinkerBella7 **asked for about d'Artagnan spraining his ankle, so here you go! This sort of turned into a bunch of OCs collected together and exchanging bets, so...sorry about that. Anyways, I hope you like my OCs as they'll probably be sticking around for a while (but I love them, and I hope you do too because they're adorable little people) and I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

D'Artagnan should have known better by now than to try to jump from the horse on a dare. But Aubin and Francoise had betted twelve livres on him against the (admittedly grumpy and ill-tempered) Henri, one of the older musketeers of the garrison (as in, someone who hated d'Artagnan hanging out with his friends there because he wasn't a musketeer yet).

Now, don't get him wrong; d'Artagnan loved bugging the older musketeers and rubbing in the fact that he could enter the garrison even when they'd complained to Treville (who didn't believe a word of it) about him, but he realized later that he was being an arrogant fool who, of course, had no common sense.

But honestly, he had tried to talk himself out of it- Aubin was being stubborn again though, and when Aubin put his mind to something it was done. So he really didn't deserve the lecture this time, truth be told.

But he could understand the musketeers' (that is, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis) confusion, so he decided he'd explain again from the beginning.

**...**

"Nah," Aubin was saying as he munched on the apple in his hand, Francoise glaring at him for not sharing, "my Pa was always doing the plowing while I worked on pulling the horses; didn't do much of riding them. Why? What about it, d'Art?"

"Don't call me that," he admonished with half-hearted seriousness, a smile quirking the corners of his lips. "And I learned to ride them after my mother had gotten- ill- and my sisters had moved away. They'd learned how to ride from my mother, who always was such an avid outdoorist. My father went on long trips and such and thus had no time to do the shopping, so I learned and I did. There had never been any reason for me to learn to seriously, skillfully ride; just enough to know when to guide the horse to plow."

Francoise laughed and managed to snipe the apple out of Aubin's hold, taking his own bite on the not-eaten side. Aubin glared at him and threw a glove at his head, which Francoise caught easily and smacked him gently across the cheek with. It was enough to sting but not to leave a mark, and d'Artagnan grinned. "We'll call you whatever we like; just be happy it's not worse, Charles," he chuckled, and Aubin tried again to snag the apple back, which Francoise kept out of reach.

"You know, the people at home'd call me Chas sometimes," d'Artagnan mused aloud, and both Aubin and Francoise stopped what they were doing to stare at him. "What?"

"You...were...called…" Aubin paused, "Chas. Oh, that's beautiful; I'm using it!"

D'Artagnan snarled, "don't you dare!"

Francoise dropped his apple, he was laughing so hard, clutching at his stomach when Aubin punched him for losing breakfast. D'Artagnan shook his head, smiling at his friend's antics. "Come on. I had a lot of nicknames; some called me Batz, because of my father's title; some called me Charles; some called me Tagnan…"

Aubin shook his head, blonde curls flying about. "No, man, but Chas, really? I mean, that's almost as bad as the one my mother had for me!"

D'Artagnan's lips quirked. "What did your mother have for you, Aubin?"

The other boy went crimson and ducked his head, muttering something. Francoise cracked up and shook his own head, his dark locks dancing. "I never had any nicknames, really, but I can tell you one of Aubin's."

D'Artagnan, sensing humor in the words, raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

Francoise nodded sagely. "Oh yes. Want to hear?" Aubin was listening closely now, his eyes narrowed in thought. "Come closer...closer…" Aubin leaned in as close as their proximity would allow, and Francoise paused, d'Artagnan barely having the time to jerk back as he shouted something in Aubin's face, making the younger boy startle and jump away.

Aubin rolled his eyes as d'Artagnan broke out into chuckles. "Yeah, yeah," he said, "really funny- a knee slapper. Tell me Francoise: if I'm annoying, what the hell are you?"

Before the young man could respond, a voice sneered: "Well, well, well, if it isn't the musketeer pup and his friends. What are you all supposed to be doing at the moment, hm?"

D'Artagnan tried to stop the small snort from escaping, but by the giggles that erupted from Aubin and the snarl from Henri, he failed pretty badly. "Well, Henri," Francoise answered diplomatically, "seeing as we're early to the garrison- as always- we're eating breakfast. Then after this we're going to- as always- get our orders from Treville. Then we're going to- as always- carry them out with efficiency and love oozing from our every pore."

Henri bared his yellowing teeth, and d'Artagnan found his lips curling. "And I see you've forgotten to wash your mouth again, as always," he murmured for his friends' ears alone, but judging by the curling of fists and the swinging of arms and the general shouts being flung his way, it was heard. Aubin was laughing hysterically, Francoise was snorting, Ceron was on his way over to find out what the hell was going on and d'Artagnan just really, really loved his friends.

He didn't quite remember how horses had been brought up again but Henri had dared him to flip off the back of one, and Aubin and Francoise had agreed and bet money on him, and Ceron had walked away because he'd wanted no part of it, and d'Artagnan wasn't one to say no to a challenge.

So he climbed atop Aubin's gentle, nice tempered mare, stood, and accidentally kicked her into a gallop as he was just about to jump- he was already in the air flipping though but she was gone, and so he was hurtling to the ground from ten feet up- he just had to stick the landing-

And he landed and felt- heard- his ankle give an ugly sounding _snap_.

He wanted to scream, wanted to bawl and scream and call for Athos or Aramis or someone to help but he couldn't, so frozen in disbelief as he was. He met the gazes of Aubin and Francoise, saw their understanding- the fear, almost- and in that moment knew that they needed those twelve extra livres; couldn't afford to lose them.

So he grit his teeth, sucked in a breath, and stood completely, putting weight on the once again broken ankle. Aubin's fake cough covered up his squeak of pain.

"I believe you owe my friends twelve livres," he said coldly and Henri, snarling, paid the younger musketeers, marching off in a frustrated huff.

As soon as he was gone, both his arms were slung over Aubin's and Francoise's shoulders, and the weight was taken from his leg and he let out a strangled _"ahhhhnnn."_

Aubin was muttering curses under his breath as he brought them to Aramis's barracks, and Francoise was praying about something that d'Artagnan couldn't hear. Through the haze of pain he recognized Aramis's soft tones, Porthos's clipped ones, and Athos's gruff ones, and he knew he was in trouble.

"'srry," he muttered, a ghost of a pained smile on his lips, "was bein' stupid."

He knew all was forgiven when he heard Athos's sharp, "you're always stupid."

He was vaguely aware of Aramis pouring something down his throat that he swallowed willingly, a flash of pain in his ankle that traveled up his whole leg, a voice shouting that sounded suspiciously like his own, then darkness.

**...**

"Are you kidding me?" Porthos said, his mouth hanging open but his eyes like daggers. "You went and broke your ankle- again, I may add- all because of a dare?"

D'Artagnan shrugged and plucked at a loose string on his shirt. "Yeah."

Aramis sighed and ran a hand over his face, which was drawn in exhaustion. "I am honestly not sure what to say to that," he said frankly, rubbing at his eyes.

"You're grounded," Athos spoke up from where he'd been silent in the corner of the room through the whole story.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened as he felt his temper flare. "You can't ground me!"

"Oh yes I can," Athos said with a dark smile, his eyes hooded and something malicious twisting his features. "I can indeed. And I will enforce it if you don't follow it."

D'Artagnan went to stand, and fell back into the chair. His ankle, even three days later, hurt like mad. "You can't! Who do you think you are, my mother?"

Athos grit his teeth. "I will smack you like your mother would if you don't stop arguing this instant, young man."

And, the tone one that he'd heard countless times from his own mother in his lifetime, d'Artagnan stilled, and Athos gave a smug little smirk. He recalled the slaps he'd get when he'd been a fool, and they weren't pleasant; often they were upside the head.

"You can't do this," he tried again weakly, but Athos only gave him another wolfish smile.

"Oh, try me."

D'Artagnan didn't accept dares after that.

* * *

_(I told you they're just adorable little people and I love them) But seriously, how were they? Do we hate them? If we do, they'll leave- I'll kill 'em or something...If not, then they're probably going to just be in like, every single chapter making a cameo, like in the background it's like: _

_Aubin: Hey, hey d'Artagnan. (d'Artagnan turns head) Snap!_

_(D'Artagnan shakes head and turns back and everyone goes "OH GOD I REMEMBER THAT CHAPTER")_

_Legoelf: You have four prompts before the Aramis/shot/one, which I'm combining with d'Art/is/older/sibling ones (as those have been suggested a few times!) I have not forgotten; do not let the bunnies starve._

_Debbie: (Right yay for spoilers I'm American dude) but yeah, I'd probably have ended up doing something like that anyways._

_Tianne: I know, right? We're on to you, Treville. Yep. (Also can't wait for a chapter I have planned out ALL FROM TREVILLE'S POV and I'm excited)_

_fanficalicious: It's happening, no worries. Like I said: if it's not M rated, I can probs make it happen :)_

_Becimpala33: I was a little nervous about the gifts, so I'm glad that they were suiting!_

_Candy Cakes: He'll only wear his hat when he's not being majestic, don't worry ;) Also, I can do that! YAY FOR FIRST EPISODE TAGS I LOVE THOSE SO MUCH _

_Anyways, thanks for reading, please tell me what you thought about the OCs, and despite my list, I still love those suggestions! :)_


	15. A Pain in the Head

_Hey all! I literally can't thank you all enough for all the reviews, favorites, and follows. Good to see old faces and happy to see new ones :) Welcome to the club._

_So I've sort of fallen off the 8 ball halfway through this chapter- it was there, and then...it wasn't. I'm still happy with it all the same and it is MIGRAINED d'Artagnan, suggested by fariedragon!_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

The day wasn't unlike any other day. It wasn't hot nor cold nor wet nor sunny; it was one of those bleak and rather boring cloudy days, where the sky was grey and the air only a little humid and the breeze slightly chillier than normal. There had been absolutely nothing to bring it on, only the plain stretch of dirt road in front of him and the speckled trees on either side. It was Autumn and the leaves were just changing, the green of the leaves fading into spectacular shades of red, orange and yellow, the tips just crinkling enough to make small crackling sounds when stepped on.

And then there was a dull throbbing in the back of his head.

Now, d'Artagnan had learned his lesson by now to tell the musketeers if he was feeling ill, but really, it was only a headache. It wasn't as though he was throwing up- but now that he was thinking about it, his stomach was rolling a little ominously.

Sighing and figuring he wouldn't burden his friends with the small cold he'd no doubt managed to contract (seeing as the day was almost over, and the garrison was only just beginning to clear out and he was still training with them). It had been a good day, and for it to end on a sour note would be disappointing. He figured he'd just take care of it when he returned to Bonacieux's.

He admitted freely, however, that each clang of a sword shot through his head like a bullet, and every clack of a boot against the pavement was like signing his own death sentence. But he grit his teeth and trained onwards, determined to master the move he'd been having trouble with all morning, Athos drilling him hard- _step, block, parry, step, step, slice, parry._

And it came upon him so suddenly that he felt dizzy and nauseous and he was doubling over and clutching his stomach and white light filled his vision, blinding him as red hot pokers sliced through his eyes and straight into his skull. He heard Athos's dull shout of surprise and then worry, then the clatter of swords hitting pavement as Athos ran to him; the pounding in his head grew worse _(how, how was that even possible, how can that even happen?!)_ and he retched again, miserably on his hands and knees, trying his best to stay upright.

Screwing his face up in an attempt to ward off the pain pounding behind his eyes, he felt Athos grab him softly about the shoulders and guide him to his feet. The world swayed dangerously and d'Artagnan once again sank to his knees, moaning and clutching at his head. Another sharp shout from Athos which caused a flare of pain in his head, then sudden quiet.

Breathing a small sigh of relief as his headache dulled the tiniest bit back to a level of agony that he could manage, d'Artagnan struggled to his feet, feeling Athos softly guide him forward, arms on his shoulders. He felt a hat plop over his head, sliding down to the bridge of his nose and effectively covering his eyes, so if he opened them, they were shaded.

It didn't matter anyways. He trusted Athos to lead him faithfully.

He hadn't realized Athos was murmuring sweet nothings in his ear until his mentor fell silent, and the click of a door then the replacing of hands was the only clue d'Artagnan had that they were in someone's apartments.

"What happened?" Aramis's alarmed voice came, and it was like a siren in d'Artagnan's brain. He gasped out and scrunched up his face, hearing only the tail end of murmurs from Athos to Aramis before another set of hands- smoother; spindly fingers grasped his upper arms- guide him over and sit him down on the side of the bed.

"Alright," he was whispering (_whispering wasn't right; it must have been barely a breath, but to d'Artagnan everything was a scream),_ "alright, d'Artagnan. It will be better soon. Sh.."

And then he became aware that he was making inadvertent little whimpers, and he embarrassedly clamped his jaws shut, but this caused further pain to his head. "It's alright, d'Artagnan." Aramis. "Let it out. Don't clench your jaw- it will only make it worse. Relax your face and do not panic."

D'Artagnan did as told, the lights flashing behind his (when did he close them?) lids with every breath he took, and he felt someone gently lay him horizontally and pull a light blanket up to his shoulders. "Shh.. It's alright."

Two fingers against each of his temples began rubbing in soft circles, but d'Artagnan flinched away from the touch; it had ignited agony, but again Aramis said patiently, "it's alright, d'Artagnan...sh...It's alright. It will be better soon. Just hang on…"

A cool cloth was laid over his eyes, soft fingers combing through his hair. Against the pain, his body began to automatically relax, years and years of ingrained reactions going to work. The white hot spikes once again dulled down to a manageable roar as the fingers at his temples soothed away the ache, and he gave a sigh, sagging further into the pillows.

"Alright lad. You're alright." Ah. So the massaging fingers belonged to Porthos.

"What happened, d'Artagnan?" Everyone was whispering so low, he was sure, but it truly was like ringing bells through his brain and he couldn't contain a small wince. Another sigh. "Sorry."

Time was immeasurable, only the fingers running through his hair and rubbing at his head and Aramis's soft strokes of his thumb across the back of d'Artagnan's hand giving him any indication. He was no longer feeling quite so nauseated and figured that because the roar had finally diminished to an ignorable thrum, he could open his eyes.

There was a single candle lit on the opposite side of the room, the whole apartment bathed in darkness. D'Artagnan breathed a sigh of what he realized was relief- if there had been bright lights (too bright like before, like the flashes he'd gotten) he didn't know what he would've done.

"Alright now?" Aramis asked kindly, and d'Artagnan nodded, his eyes glued to his wringing hands in his lap.

He cleared his throat and said quietly, "it was the barest hint of a headache at first. It happened very suddenly."

Another odd little exhale of breath as Athos ran a hand over his face. "I don't care if it's a hangnail," he said with conviction, making d'Artagnan lower his head further. "You will tell us. Don't make me inspect you everyday, d'Artagnan. I will do so."

His head shot up. "You wouldn't."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Did I stutter?"

Pursing his lips and deciding that his pride wasn't worth the scolding he'd receive if he did respond, d'Artagnan shook his head. He sensed more than saw Porthos smile as a gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"You're one of us, lad," he said softly. "And we watch out for our brothers; especially the little ones."

And, well. He supposed the day hadn't been that bad after all.

* * *

_Legoelf: I think Athos is really a softie, maternal sort of big brother at heart. The one who will Gibbs-slap you when you're being an idiot but will kiss your scrapes when you get 'em. Yeah I can definitely tell you were happy- how much sugar did you have before that review? :) Don't pester too many; the bunnies might get tired._

_TinkerBella7: I KNOW RIGHT ATHOS WOULD DEFINITELY KILL THEM IF HE FOUND THEM- OH THANK YOU IDEA_

**_EVERYONE PAUSE A MOMENT TO READ THIS_**

_...how would we feel about just this huge annual musketeers' hide and seek tournament? Like, everyone has to hide somewhere around like, a clearing they gather and people have to take turns tracking and finding others, and those who can't find the hiders lose? HAHA I'm writing it- THANK YOU TINKERBELLA7_

_Becimpala33: Good, I'm glad. I didn't want them to seem like awesome friends because, let's face it, they sort of suck on the friend meter, almost forcing him to jump off a horse for twelve livres..._

_CandyCakes: Nah, they won't be dominating the story. I'll just bring 'em in when our young friend needs some hey-look-I-also-know-other-musketeers-and-they're-my-age time. :)_

_Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it, and please leave me a comment on your thoughts! As always, I love suggestions!_


	16. Wonderful Mistake

_Hey everyone! Sorry for the late update; I've been on vacation all week and let me tell you, I'm exhausted. It's the kind of good exhaustion, though :)_

_**fariedragon**: I'm sorry to hear about your migraines but I'm glad you enjoyed the chap!_

_**KleptoKoala**: This chapter will make you smile, there is SO MUCH older brotherly Porthos in this it's almost ridiculous_

_**Candy Cakes:** Thanks so much for both the review and the notice! It's fixed now, but I appreciate it a lot. I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much!_

_**Becimpala33**: I'm sorry to hear it, but I hope this one makes you smile as well!_

_**Sandtalon**: I'm often worried Porthos disappears, and I'm quite happy he doesn't. Thanks for the review and I'm happy you like my OCs!_

_**Zoe95**: Thanks! I do try. Consider it done! You've got a bit of a wait though, sorry :( I'll have it up as soon as I can!_

_**fluffybunny39**: Grazie! Grazie, mi amica/o. Here's your chapter!_

_**kairitonks:** I'm absolutely LOVING that idea. That's actually really interesting, and kind of sucks. I wonder why his parents did that to him? I'll have to figure something out..._

_ALSO, THIS CHAPTER WAS ASKED BY **PONDERA 2.0,** who wanted d'Art's horse to be stolen._

* * *

D'Artagnan would have realized; honest. He hadn't been getting much sleep lately, nightmares often plaguing what little he did manage, and whenever it happened it was far from restful. He would have noticed and said something- after all, even if it was a borrowed horse it was important and _how did he not notice?_

The mission hadn't been terribly important (meaning they were lolly gagging again, as usual) and they'd stopped at an inn for the night. D'Artagnan was cold and the weather was howling, and he was just really, really exhausted and wanted to fall into bed and not have to get up. Shivering as Porthos wrapped both arms around him from the back, trying to warm him on the horse they shared, d'Artagnan leaned into the embrace and tried to stop his clacking teeth.

"I swear lad, you're too skinny," he said quietly into d'Artagnan's hair, and d'Artagnan shakily nodded his agreement. "A bit of extra fat would keep your pasty ass warmer, I'm sure."

D'Artagnan, teeth still clacking despite Porthos's arms, was guided up the stairs of the inn and into bed, where Porthos piled on blankets. Aramis followed, shaking the snow from his shoulders and plopping down their travel bags and weapons. Athos came in after, rubbing his hands together and blowing into them as he tried to warm up. He regarded d'Artagnan with sympathy.

"I suppose your near death a couple weeks ago didn't help with your cold, hm?"

D'Artagnan's teeth chattered louder, and Aramis sighed as he removed his hat. "The horses have been taken care of by the stable boy, and I suggest we all get some rest."

He changed into spare clothing from his pack and crawled in along with d'Artagnan, who had no shame when he moved himself closer and bundled himself in Aramis's warm body. Aramis, in return, wrapped his arms around the young musketeer as d'Artagnan buried his freezing nose into the crook of Aramis's neck.

At his shocked gasp, he hadn't been expecting it. "Mon dieu, d'Artagnan; your nose is like ice!" D'Artagnan nodded, shivering still, and Aramis cast him a concerned look. "Mon dieu," he muttered under his breath again as he pulled d'Artagnan impossibly closer, "Porthos, get in here. We need your warmth, as annoying it may be on some days."

Porthos, from where he'd just changed, was happy to oblige, nudging back the covers just enough to slither in behind d'Artagnan and cover he and Aramis with his broad arms. Even Aramis let out a small breath as his warmth seeped into their frozen bones.

D'Artagnan took the opportunity to press his icy feet against Porthos's, who let out a hiss. "My God, lad; you really weren't faking it."

"n-n-n-n-no-no," he stuttered, and Porthos ran his hands along d'Artagnan's sides to try to warm those, too. "C-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-cold."

Athos, from where he was standing, snorted. "No kidding," he said, but it held no tease.

A few minutes passed in silence, the only sounds d'Artagnan's breathing and Athos as he cleaned his weapons. Finally, ever so slowly, d'Artagnan's trembling eased and he exhaled in relief as warmth seeped back into his bones.

"Thanks," he murmured quietly, and heard Athos quietly crawl into bed after he'd taken care all of he felt he'd needed. Porthos's low rumble signified a laugh, but d'Artagnan's eyes were dragging themselves closed as he sleepily burrowed deeper into the covers.

Shaking his head and forcing his eyes open again, he heard Athos say, "close your eyes, you idiot. We need you rested for tomorrow."

And with that good night that sent warmth straight to his heart, d'Artagnan was asleep.

**...**

So d'Artagnan would have noticed the horse was swapped- honest. And he'd honestly forgotten that he'd left the letter they'd been supposed to deliver in the secret part of the saddle. And the horse he'd gotten hadn't felt the same but looked it, so much so that d'Artagnan was convinced it had to be his.

Of course, when they were halfway there and he'd decided to check- just in case- and hadn't found it, he'd panicked.

"Athos," he cried, swinging from his horse and stumbling backwards, falling over himself in his haste and watching as his steed reared it's head and took off down the road in it's fright, "Athos!"

Athos was at his side in an instant, eyes wide and concerned. "What is it, son, are you hurt?! What happened?!"

D'Artagnan's swallowed, forcing down his franticness. "I- the-" he trailed off, trying to find his voice again. "Not my horse."

"What do you mean, not your horse?" Aramis asked.

D'Artagnan only repeated woodenly, "not my horse."

Porthos blinked. "So you're saying that the letter is in the-"

"Saddle, yeah."

Athos ran a hand over his face. "Why can't anything ever be easy for us?" He muttered under his breath, rubbing at his eyes. After a moment of tense silence and awkward gaze exchanges, Athos finally sighed and lowered his hands, giving them an expression full of grim determination. "I suppose we'll have to find it, then," he said with surety, swinging back up on his own horse.

"Athos, that horse could be miles away by now," Aramis argued, desperation oozing from his tone, "it would be much easier to just go back and ask Treville to draw up another-"

"And admit defeat?" Porthos cried in disbelief.

Aramis rubbed his forehead, leaning over and saying into d'Artagnan's ear, "I think I've already lost the battle."

D'Artagnan whispered back, "I don't think you were ever really in it, to be honest."

Aramis gave a sturdy nod, like this had been the answer he'd been looking for, because he settled back into a neutral position and jumped upon his horse again. D'Artagnan followed, using the former priest's thigh to boost himself into the saddle behind him. Aramis chuckled as d'Artagnan wrapped his arms around Aramis's waist.

"Just couldn't keep your hands to yourself, hm?" Aramis asked playfully, and d'Artagnan gave a growl.

"I am strong enough now to send you careening from this horse, Aramis, and don't think I'll hesitate to leave you behind," he warned, causing Aramis to throw back his head and laugh.

"Enough!" Athos barked. "D'Artagnan, what do you remember about last night? Who took your horse after you'd given it up?"

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I- I-" he paused. "I gave it to Aramis, because I was cold, remember? Aramis said he'd given them to-"

"The stable boy," the musketeer in front of him said darkly, tossing curls about as he too shook his head, "of course. That stable boy was too old to be an actual stable boy."

"What'd he look like?" Porthos asked, brows furrowed.

"He was older- greying hair, if I remember right. And he was heavy- too heavy to be a peasant, not that I'm thinking about it."

"Did he give any indication of where he was going?" Athos questioned, and Aramis shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Athos, but no."

Athos gave a frustrated sigh, but then d'Artagnan recalled a detail from the last evening and promptly loosened his grip on Aramis's saddle.

Aramis glanced back in concern, his eyes narrowing as he pulled his horse to a stop. "D'Artagnan, what's the matter?"

D'Artagnan ignored him, jumping from the horse and making his way to Athos. "Get up," he said softly, and Athos, glaring in confusion, did so and dismounted. D'Artagnan popped open the familiar worn saddle and, sure enough, there was the document, neatly folded.

Silence.

Then laughter, Porthos's eyes streaming as he clapped d'Artagnan on the back, Aramis grinning as he slung an arm over his shoulder, and Athos shaking his head as he cuffed him over the head.

"How, lad?" Porthos exclaimed, and d'Artagnan smiled.

"When I was cold, remember how I moved to your horse so I could lean against you? And Athos's horse had been so tired that he'd dismounted from his and rode mine? The thief has Athos's horse because he assumed the horse Athos was riding was his own, when really it was mine."

Athos's lips pursed as he mourned, "my horse!"

Another round of laughter rattled the company, and Porthos gestured for d'Artagnan to climb up. "Well in that case, we'll continue to let Athos ride, because he makes a miserable partner when wanting to keep warm. He's all elbows and knees."

D'Artagnan, grinning, climb up with Porthos, and the three friends, laughing and vowing to never tell Treville about it, went on their merry way.

When asked why they'd only returned with three horses instead of four by Treville, they merely said that it was all Athos's fault and left it there.

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_If anyone is interested, I'd **ABSOLUTELY LOVE** to see some **fanart**! Just PM me or leave the link in the comment! I can't wait to see what you guys come up with :)_

_Thanks for reading, please leave me a comment on your thoughts, I love suggestions, and have a great day!_


	17. Stabbed in the Back

_Hey everybody! So_

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_rry for the wait but thank you for doing so patiently! School has started up again so updates are going to be coming inevitably slower, but I'll try my best to have two out every week. _

_Tianne: Obviously. There was no reason for me to assume any different._

_Legoelf: My holiday was stressful but fun, not going to lie. I know, I thought I'd throw something fun and easy your way :) ARAMIS IS SHOT IS UP NEXT!_

_TinkerBella7: I know, right? D'Artagnan had the chance to be the smart one finally! I knew he had to come up with something ingenious at some point._

_Becimpala33: Thanks! I love d'Artagnan and Porthos's relationship. I think they have a lot in common without realizing it._

_the whitefang: I can do that! Just to let you know I have a prompt list of 29 at the moment, but yours will come at some point! _

_Guest: Thank you so much! That means a lot :)_

_Vanessa Sgroi: Ah, Supernatural! I'm in S7 at the moment, and I cannot wait until the 200th! I'm so excited. I read your fanfic and it was amazing! Keep writing!_

_Candy Cakes: Thank you! It was fun. SNUGGLE FESTS ARE STILL MY WEAKNESS YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THOUGH-_

_writinginmyjeans: Thanks! I appreciate it!_

_Lordempressaddie: ME TOO BRO_

_ Lordempressaddiedoodle: Thank you! That made my day! :) You betcha! Here's a chapter for you!_

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D'Artagnan hadn't known about the two musketeers that were undercover- if he had, he wouldn't have jumped in like he did. As it was, he hadn't known about the mission to discover a foreign spy that Treville suspected to be hostile. If he had, he would have left it alone.

As it was, he didn't.

If he _had_ known, though, he would have also had to know that there are such things as woman spies, too.

As it was, he didn't.

He had been walking down the street, going to the garrison early in the morning- the sun wasn't even up yet, the sky still dark and the streets still deserted- when he'd heard the screams. Narrowing his eyes and dropping into a creep, d'Artagnan followed the tortured sounds of a sobbing woman, tracking them down the street and into an alley.

Two men stood over a fallen, dark haired woman, who was crying and shielding her face. D'Artagnan could tell without realizing it that they were leering at her and could hear their taunts, and they echoed and bounced off the alley walls. His blood began to boil as they stepped forward, grinning wolfishly in the dim lighting, hands raised as if to strike her-

He saw red.

He lost himself- he could vaguely hear smacking of skin on skin, the woman's screams, and his own grunts, but they seemed distant and unreachable as he punched and kicked and fought and, in turn, was hit.

When he came back, his knuckles were bloody, his body hurt, but he was standing.

They were not.

The woman was curled up against the wall in the corner, crying into her hands, her shoulders heaving in sobs. The sun had risen over the horizon and bathed the alley in a soft light, and d'Artagnan's whole body was one big throb.

But he was standing.

The two men stood- "you'll pay for this, boy-" one that looked distinctly familiar growled- but he wasn't aware enough to hear it over the roaring in his ears as the woman, realizing the danger had passed, stood and ran by him, brushing his shoulder. The two men snarled at him and d'Artagnan became sharply aware that they were cracking their necks and looked very ready for round two-

They pulled out daggers and d'Artagnan, even through his hotheadedness, knew right then that despite his skill he'd be killed-

Swallowing and wiping his bloody hands on his pants, he sprinted for the garrison, their footsteps thudding in his ears- _right behind right behind right behind-_

He ran for his life, faster than he'd ever been; he was launching himself forward, scrambling, stumbling, faltering but he_ had to get there had to get there there was _safe_ and _warm_ and _protected_ and there were his older brothers and Ceron and Aubin and Francoise and Athos and he had to get there-_

And then he was staggering through the archway of the garrison and there they were- Athos. Aramis, and Porthos- they were right there eating breakfast and he could see them and he was safe-

Pain exploded on the top right hand side of his back, a burning that consumed everything else- he gasped, a hand flying over his shoulder to feel and meeting a hard handle of something that jolted under his skin-

There was a hoarse shout, and his musketeers were running towards him- "D'Artagnan!"

And it didn't hurt so much now as it was just a hindrance, and he was tired and his body throbbed and he just wanted to rest…

A sharp sting across his cheek, and it took him a moment to understand he'd been slapped. "D'Artagnan," it was a bark, "stay awake! Keep your eyes on me!"

He would if everything wasn't so _blurry…_

"D'Artagnan," another sting, and he was brought back to himself a little more, "look at me, son."

_Athos._

He wanted to, he would, but his eyes closed without his permission, and he knew no more.

**_..._**

"He should be alright now."

"Was it clean?"

"Very. Sharpened, clean dagger, clean exit wound. Tore the muscle slightly, but nothing impeding and nothing that will heal in time."

"Mon dieu, that boy will be the death of me."

'He hardly knew Henri was behind him, Athos, and had he known I'm sure he would have done something about it."

"But he didn't, and besides, he ruined that undercover mission- what if that spy will try to kill the King? The boy is too hotheaded; I don't know how-"

"Oh come, Athos, d'Art was merely doing what he thought was right in his heart. Had you seen a woman being attacked before dawn by two men, how would you react?"

"I-"

"You would have done the same thing, my friend, and Porthos, you and I all know it. Do not try to claim different; you and d'Artagnan are much alike."

"Too alike, if you ask me."

"He isn't like me, Porthos. He's like Thomas. I'd never tell him that, though, of course."

"We know little of Thomas, Athos, but we do know how much you loved him. For you to compare-"

"It means nothing."

"Surely-"

"Porthos!" A pause. "It means nothing; drop the conversation. We are being overheard. Speaking of which; d'Artagnan, open your eyes please."

D'Artagnan obliged guiltily, meeting the varying expression of his three closest friends. There was silence for a while in which all three stared at one another, until Aramis cleared his throat. "Your friends are quite concerned," he said lightly, and d'Artagnan ducked his head. "They've been by your side insistently since you've been laid up."

"How long?" He asked quietly, and Porthos sighed.

"You were stabbed four days ago and have been in and out of it since, How do you feel?"

D'Artagnan grimaced, shifting his arm experimentally and looking down. Bandages were tightly wrapped around his shoulder and across his chest, clasping his upper arm firmly in place. "Like I've been stabbed," he answered, and Athos glowered at him.

"Don't," he said, and though d'Artagnan did not quite understand, he shut his mouth.

There was a knock on the door.

Silence again as everyone abruptly stopped talking, but then Athos strode to the door and opened it, revealing a very stressed and gaunt Treville.

"How is he?" He asked with pursed lips, and Athos's eyes lightened into a smile that didn't touch his lips.

"He lives," Athos said, and Treville physically slumped, then straightened and fixed his askew hat, stepping over the threshold.

When his eyes met d'Artagnan's, they hardened, and d'Artagnan's widened.

"Monsieur?" He asked timidly, and that seemed to snap something hanging heavily over them, and Treville was shouting.

"D'Artagnan you fool! Did you not realize that the men you stopped were musketeers undercover?! Did it not occur to you that they could have a purpose?!" He was glaring and his face was flushed, and he was looming over d'Artagnan, his face inches from d'Artagnan's own, and the younger man found himself, for the first time, very afraid of his Captain.

A gloved hand rose as if to strike him and d'Artagnan flinched, cringing back as if to escape the blow-

that never fell, and Treville let his arm fall flat as he leaned forward, his voice lowered dangerously and a glint in his eye of something dark. "Don't let it happen again, d'Artagnan," he growled, and d'Artagnan nodded frantically.

"Monsieur, if I may," Aramis said, and Treville's attention snapped to the seasoned musketeer, "d'Artagnan was not foiling a plot consciously- he was defending a woman from two people who he'd seen as thugs, Captain. Had he known he would have stayed away from the situation."

Treville's eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed, and he turned back to d'Artagnan, looking considerably more reasonable. "Is this true?" He asked sharply, and d'Artagnan nodded rapidly, his breathing shallow as his exhausted and soupy mind tried to keep up with the conversation. "Tell me."

"I-" it came out a couple octaves higher than it should have and he cleared his throat, scrambling to find words,"I- I- I-"

"If I may speak freely, Monsieur," Athos said quietly, "he's quite frightened and it would do better if you would back up slightly."

Treville seemed to realize that he was still imposing, for he made an obvious effort to make himself smaller and less threatening, and d'Artagnan hadn't noticed he'd been holding his breath until he exhaled shakily. When he looked down, his fingers were trembling.

Treville softened. "Could you tell me what happened, d'Artagnan?"

Taking a shuddering breath, d'Artagnan said, "I was walking to the garrison, and I heard a woman sobbing. Two men were standing over her in a dark alley a-and I- I'd thought they were to hurt her, Monsieur, so I-"

"Reacted." Treville rubbed a hand over his mouth, sighing and pinching his nose. "Henri told me that you knew they'd be there and wanted to be the one to get the information. Told me you'd hit them and then tried to get the woman to give you the information, but you let her go, and when they tried to get up and follow you beat them again."  
The four men's mouths hung open, and this was all the information Treville needed to know. "N-no, Captain, I had no idea! What information?! I didn't...I just wanted to do the right thing," he said softly, biting his lip and looking up with huge eyes. "I'm sorry."

Treville shook his head, a frown pulling at his lips. "It is I who should apologize, d'Artagnan. Henri will be alerted of his firing immediately and his rank will be stripped. If you wish it, since he is the one who wronged you, it can be done publicly and humiliatingly."

D'Artagnan spluttered a moment, then shook his head. "No, Monsieur, please don't. No man deserves that- if you must, strip him quietly and let him go with dignity."

"He stabbed you," Porthos reminded, confused etched in his face.

A smile pulled at Aramis's lips. "You truly are an amazing young man, d'Artagnan," he said, d'Artagnan blushed.

When he turned, Athos was positively beaming at him, and d'Artagnan's grin was as radiant as the sun.

Treville excused himself without a word, leaving them to their own.

**...**

"I can't believe it," Aubin marveled a month later, when d'Artagnan was healed, "you managed to get stabbed and hurt again, get rid of your mortal enemy, and humble the Captain." He shook his head and took a bite of his apple.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "Please. He wasn't my mortal enemy."

Aubin nodded seriously, pushing Francoise away from where he'd tried to sit on the railing next to Aubin. "Oh yes he was, and it was an epic battle that no one will ever forget."

"No one ever saw it, either," Francoise pointed out, shoving Aubin out of his way to clamber up onto the rail of the stables.

Aubin pushed him off again. "Well, we know, and that's enough. We can spread the story!"

D'Artagnan groaned. "Please don't." He really just wanted to forget about the whole thing, to be honest, and walk away alright and safe and done with the whole situation.

Francoise and Aubin just grinned.

And Treville made sure that d'Artagnan knew about undercover mission beforehand after that.

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_NOTE: This was suggested by Sandtalon, who wanted musketeers defending d'Art from Treville, and also whoever suggested d'Artagnan being stabbed in the shoulder!_

_Thank you for reading, please leave me a comment on your thoughts and ARAMIS BEING SHOT IS UP NEXT! Again for those new to this story I would love some fanart from y'all, just send me the links!_


	18. Shot in the Heart Part I- Leap

_Hey guys! It's been about two weeks since I've updated, and I'm so sorry about that! My life got crazy busy because of my classes and I've a cold at the moment that is absolutely terrible, ugh I hate it, but it's given me the opportunity to write this out for y'all. DUN DUN DUN! The chapter is upon us. Aramis...has_ been...**shot.**

_**threatening music inserted here**_

_This was suggested by **Legoelf** and **Tianne**, and it's going to be an ARC, so about three...chapters...I think? Anyways! Also, I wanted to address a Guest that left a review here: I'm not going to do the first of your suggestions because I don't feel comfortable writing it, and it's not T rated. **But I love the other suggestions though and will definitely do them when I have the time! Thank you for your review!**_

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Athos sighed as he caught snatches of the chatter going on behind him between the King, Queen and Treville, shaking his head. He truly hated escorting missions. It wasn't that he had anything against the King and Queen- far from it, actually (he was, after all, a musketeer)- but they were terribly dull, as he and his brothers couldn't banter, they couldn't dally like they usually may on a less serious mission, and there was a whole group of musketeers behind them, so he felt horribly out of his element.

He'd never admit it, but he truly enjoyed his friends' company and camaraderie, the ease with which they spoke to each other on missions and errands; it made things less tense but not less alert, and allowed an escape when they all felt trapped in their thoughts. As he looked at each of his brothers in turn, he noticed Porthos looking incredibly bored, and Aramis was staring straight ahead like he was daydreaming, but then Porthos's lips quirked a bit and Athos narrowed his eyes as followed his friend's gaze to-

was d'Artagnan _sleeping_?

Athos blinked in astonishment as he watched his youngest brother sway a little in his saddle, head bowed slightly and eyes shut, hair covering most of his face. From what Athos could see, his hands were slack on the pummel, and Aramis was-

_They've known he'd been asleep for quite a while_, Athos thought, stifling his chuckle and shaking his head. _Aramis is leading the reins and Porthos is riding beside him, nudging him upright. Oh, they're such imbeciles... If Louis finds out- or worse, Treville…_

But he couldn't find the malice in him to speak up about it, especially when d'Artagnan had such dark circles under his eyes, and Athos shook his head again, a fond smile pulling at his lips._ A break in the monotony indeed._

Louis began to say something that Athos couldn't catch as shouts and shots and clouds of gunpowder erupted from both sides of the path, so loud he could have believed it thunder, and there was screaming and panic and a blur of blue garment and the tan of Spaniard skin that flew by and fell with a lifeless thud to the cold, leaf strewn forest floor; panic came too quickly and movement too fast to track, and Athos lost his wits until d'Artagnan's shrill shriek rose above the clamor: _"ARAMIS!"_

And with a sinking, solid feeling hardening in his gut, Athos pushed through his shock,. loading his musket and firing before unsheathing his sword and slicing down anything that came near him or his monarchs, a whirlwind of dancing steps and singing blade around the scrambling musketeers. There was a presence near his shoulder and he pivoted, striking downwards and slashing as he struck out-

The cry of pain made him pause as his blood froze in his veins, and the red drained from his vision to reveal d'Artagnan's pinched face, his normally olive skin completely alabaster, the warm eyes now only pools of terror.

Sheathing his weapon and immediately folding out of his defensive position, he grasped d'Artagnan by the elbows, brows furrowed as he barked, "d'Artagnan, did I harm you?!" And after the silence that stretched on too long added: "Answer me, boy!"

D'Artagnan's trembling fingers came away from his arm coated in blood and Athos cursed at his own foolish impulsiveness, but when he tried to rip his sleeve to bind it d'Artagnan pulled away and grabbed him urgently by the sleeve, his eyes wide. There was a look deep in them that made Athos blink and pause, for it was a look he'd seen many times before: the look of a deer in the sight of a hunter, a trapped, frantic and desperate sort of glint, and Athos questioned softly, "d'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan swallowed and gasped for breath, pulling Athos along, nimble feet jumping over fallen men and twigs and artfully dodging pools of blood that made bile rise in Athos's throat. Leading him along through the calming horses and the running musketeers, d'Artagnan rounded a carriage corner-

And what Athos saw knocked his breath away, so hard he thought that the'd never take in air again, his lungs crumpling in on themselves. Aramis lay on his back, eyes glassy as they stared up at the canopy of trees above them, dapples of light flickering across his face. Porthos kneeled beside him, his gloves abandoned a few feet away, his hands pressing on Aramis's midsection.

His fingers too were slicked with blood, and Athos closed his eyes because_ he was going to be sick._

D'Artagnan let out a shaky exhale and shook his head, darting forward to Aramis's other side and flinging himself to his knees, eyes tear filled as he wrestled out of his top shirt and pressed it alongside Porthos's already crimson soaked cape. Porthos watched their youngest brother with pitying eyes, and Athos became suddenly and terribly aware that this was the first time d'Artagnan had ever seen any of them potentially mortally wounded, and he was _petrified_.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat because_ there is so much blood_, gently picking up Aramis's head and resting it in his lap, brushing some wayward curls off his face. Aramis blinked sluggishly and his eyes rolled until they found Athos, and he grinned. Blood stained his lips.

"A-Ath-thos," he choked, and Athos shushed his younger friend, laying a palm against his cheek. It was already cold.

"Be at peace, Aramis. We are here. The Queen and King are fine. Everyone is fine." Athos looked up, his eyes searching Porthos's face, and when he found on a few minor cuts and scrapes he breathed easier. "Everyone is fine, and everything is going to be fine. I swear."

"Liar," Aramis chuckled, giving a few muffled coughs.

D'Artagnan's lips trembled, and he pursed his lips as he took a deep breath. Athos could see the moment that d'Artagnan had made a decision, his shoulders squaring and his jaw clenching, and Athos felt the first hints of a smile pulling at his lips because Aramis would live. When d'Artagnan set his mind to something, it was done. His stubborn streak pulled through.

He turned to Athos and said sharply, "take off your cape. Aramis taught me how to stitch." Furrowing his brows but doing as d'Artagnan told, he smiled because he and Porthos too knew how to stitch; they would have begun had d'Artagnan not stepped up, and they both seemed to have the same idea in their heads.

They watched as he sprinted to Aramis's medical bag, pulling out a needle and thread and some tweezers, returning to them and cringing as he stared at the wound. Taking another deep breath and steeling himself once more, he set to work on getting the bullet out with the tweezers, Aramis wincing but looking, for the most part, comfortably numb.

D'Artagnan began his stitching as he managed to pull the bullet from it's safe confines with a sickening slurp, freeing it and beginning the blood flow anew. Working efficiently and using slightly sloppy but for the most part small stitches, d'Artagnan scoffed and said absently, "Aramis, you're a fool. I'm sure the whole being a hero act was completely unnecessary."

Aramis huffed, and d'Artagnan continued. "No, honestly. This was just plain stupid. You didn't need to go and endanger your life for someone who...would have…" he trailed off as he finished, looking uncertain of himself, and Athos raised his eyebrows as he inspected d'Artagnan's handiwork.

If Aramis had any internal bleeding- and Athos suspected he may- this wouldn't hold for long, but it certainly prevented Aramis from bleeding out, which was always good. It bought them time to find a nearby village- they weren't that far off the path, and Versailles was so close- and he was sure there were a few towns around that had to have common physicians. They would have to make haste, but they could make it. _Would_ make it.

Athos ripped chunks of his cape off and wrapped them around Aramis, staunching the blood further. _There_, he thought. _That should hold._

Porthos gathered his friend up into his arms, holding him like a small child, and Aramis laughed as he breathed, "not as- ahnn- light as d'Artagnan, am I, P'thos?"

Porthos sniffed. "Yes well, you've gotten lazy in your age," he retorted, and Aramis laughed again, then screwed up his face.

"Ahhhh, Porthos, don't make me chuckle so- it hurts."

Porthos immediately sobered and mounted his horse, Aramis resting against his chest, his head lolling on the bigger musketeer's shoulder.

"You," Athos glowered at his young friend, "don't think I've forgotten about you. Get over here." D'Artagnan ducked his head and meekly did so, swallowing as Athos inspected the wound he'd inflicted with a sickening sense of self hatred rising in his stomach. He ripped another strip of his cape off and wrapped it around d'Artagnan's dripping arm, stopping the blood.

"I'll be fine, Athos," d'Artagnan said as he rolled his eyes, but he allowed Athos to check him out for further injury before they swung up into their saddles.

"Captain," Athos called, and Treville turned to face them, "we're going to have to get Aramis to a physician- fast. We'll meet you at Versailles?"

Treville nodded, and then they were off, rushing and racing and flying.

The sun was shrouded as the four made their way through the French countryside in haste, spurring their horses and ducking their heads against the wind it created. They rode onwards through the cold night and ignoring the freezing rain battering against their backs, shrugging their own coats and lending to the layers Aramis had on- his lips were already so _pale_-

They stormed into the village in a swirl of dust and panic, their hearts thudding painfully against their ribcages and their eyes bright and wild.

Aramis was limp, d'Artagnan's stitching torn and blood oozing into the cloth, and then they reached the villages and Porthos was shouting and d'Artagnan was running and there was _noise_, and Athos couldn't hear, and Aramis was so still and so pale and so unmoving and _good God, not another brother, especially not Aramis-_

Frantic hurrying and feet tripping over feet as they carried him into a room- where were they? It didn't matter- and a physician was hovering over his friend and beckoning them from the room and Athos was fighting and people were shouting more and there was _noise, noise, noise._

When he came to himself, the first thing he was aware of was that he was sitting next to Porthos, their arms touching, and the silence of grief was heavy in the air. A clog in his throat, he cleared it, blinking heavily and asking in a gravelly voice, "any news?" And Porthos shook his head.

He tugged at his fingers from where they were tangled and got the surprise of his life when he found them snared in d'Artagnan's hair, d'Artagnan's head in his lap. Furrowing his brows and shaking more of the fog from his mind, he turned to Porthos, opening his mouth, but Porthos answered in a flat voice before he could even say anything.

"Drugged 'im. Wouldn't stop pacin'. He was working himself into a frenzy, and I think he was a little shell shocked to be honest. Calmed down after they'd spiked the wine they offered him and sat his ass in that space," and Porthos jutted his chin to the area beside Athos, "and sagged against you a bit and you put your hand in his hair and he was out like a snuffed candle."

Athos shook his head, his eyes wide. He didn't remember any of that. "And what was he saying?"

Porthos shrugged. "Don't know. Couldn't hear over the roaring in my ears. Just could see his face, and felt his hands gripping my arms, and I could see his mouth moving."

Athos felt another lump in his throat that he swallowed with difficulty. Porthos turned to him with misty eyes that glinted with pain. "We're supposed to take care of him, Athos." He said quietly. "And we weren't there. Not when he needed us the most. But there was so much blood and I saw him and I fro-" he stopped and wrenched his gaze away from Athos's, clenching his jaw.

Athos was silent, and after a lengthy pause Porthos continued in an even softer voice. "We're the older brothers, Athos," Porthos all but whispered. "And he needed us."

Athos ran a hand over his face, pulling it from d'Artagnan's hair to do so, and the younger man shifted a little in sleep, his brows creasing. Sighing and putting his hand back as he resisted the urge to pace, Athos bit his bottom lip until he drew blood. "I can't just sit here," he finally snapped, conscientious of d'Artagnan's head.

Porthos bared his teeth and all but growled as he rounded of the oldest musketeer, snarling, _"how do you think I feel?!_ That's my best friend in there and all I'm doing is sitting here twiddling my thumbs- we should be out and catching the bastards that did this Athos, not sitting here uselessly-"

Athos's eyes flashed as he snapped, "he is my brother too Porthos, don't think I don't know-"

D'Artagnan fidgeted and they immediately quieted, watching as he snuffled and tossed his head a bit, his brows furrowing and a frown pulling at his lips as inhaled deeply and let out a blood curdling shriek: "_ARAMIS!"_

Athos started and was quick to begin running fingers through his brother's hair, but it did nothing as his face twisted in agony. "Ara- A-Ara- _Aramis_!"

These weren't the normal cries of a nightmare, though, that they'd all grown so used to from each other: these were breathtaking, terror filled, torture induced, shrill wails of grief and confusion and anguish, and Athos was nearly deafened with the strength of the screams as he slapped d'Artagnan's cheeks a little, but it did nothing.

Snarling and cursing, Athos shouted, "d'Artagnan!_ D'Artagnan!_ Wake up, child; wake up!"

D'Artagnan gasped as he bolted upright, his eyes flying open, his pupils huge and uneven as he peered around, blinking owlishly at them. "Lad?" Porthos cautioned, and d'Artagnan shook his head, his cheeks flushing as he scooted away from his friends.

"S-sorry," he muttered, blinking the sleep and drug from his eyes. "Sorry. I was-" he cleared his throat, as it was hoarse, "was dreaming."

"We could see that," Porthos said carefully, and d'Artagnan sucked in a breath.

"Any word?" He inquired, clouded eyes staring at the bedroom they'd been banished from with blatant worry.

Porthos shook his head numbly. "None, so far. I've half a mind to kno-"

But before he could finish the door opened, and out came a blood covered but optimistic looking physician, wiping his stained red hands on a white cloth. All three musketeers stared at it, and when the physician realized what had their attention he tucked it away.

His eyes smiled, and Athos didn't dare hope- would he, could he actually be-?

"Your friend cut it very close, indeed," the physician said, and the brothers held their breaths, "but the stitches prevented most of the blood loss and so did the tight cloth, and there was no internal bleeding. If your friend survives until dawn, there's a good chance for recovery."

Athos let the breath he'd been holding since he'd seen Aramis laying motionless on the forest floor, Porthos sagged, and d'Artagnan let out a shaky exhale. The physician nodded. "You can see him now. A fever should form during the night- I'd be amazed if it didn't- so keep him cool and hydrated. Avoid moving him if you can, and call on me if you need anything."

They watched him go, and Porthos was the first on his feet, rushing through the door and taking a seat in the vacated chair by Aramis's bedside, his lips trembling as he took Aramis's hand gently in his own. Athos found his breath stolen at how pale his friend was- sickly pale, the pale of snow; the type of pale that ensured death was following in its footsteps.

The air was heavy with tension and stress as Aramis's fever spiked during the night as the physician promised- calling for random names and places, and screaming for familiar, past friends claimed by Savoy; crying for Marsac and laughing with d'Artagnan; shouting for Athos and sobbing for Porthos, sometimes calling names that the musketeers didn't dare tell him he'd wanted in the light of day.

D'Artagnan and Porthos looked exhausted, but Athos knew better than to tell them to rest, especially with their friend in the midsts of his delirium. D'Artagnan was the only one who ran from the room to refill the water bin and fetch more blankets, more because he was out the door before Porthos or Athos even began to rise from their seats.

Aramis calmed down around four in the morning, the candles dim and the wind dying down from its howl, his body stilling and his breathing becoming even. Athos palmed at his friend forehead and sighed in relief- Aramis's fever had broken.

"He will live," Athos said quietly. "His fever has broken, and I believe infection has passed us by."

D'Artagnan beamed despite his exhaustion, and Porthos let out a shocked little laugh, falling back into his chair. Athos slumped and plopped himself down in the one beside Aramis's head, resting his elbows on the mattress and placing his chin in his palm. D'Artagnan swallowed and blinked heavily, sinking down atop the chest at the foot of Aramis's bed, lay his head atop his folded arms (which were on top of the covers by Aramis's feet) and was out in seconds, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath.

"Lad's exhausted himself, is what he's done," Porthos said softly, and Athos hummed in agreement.

"Indeed," he said, "but he was perhaps the most frightened out of the three of us for Aramis- not that we weren't worried, but we have been confident that Aramis can pull through." He paused thoughtfully. "I believe d'Artagnan was so afraid because he had little faith that Aramis could recover from something like this."

"He's never seen us mortally wounded before, Athos," Porthos reminded. "Only minorly, remember- even with all we've been through, for some reason, he always takes the bullet, the runt." He shook his head fondly, and Athos's lips quirked.

"Get some sleep, my friend," he advised, sitting up straighter. "I'll take first watch."

Porthos grunted, but it was a testament to how truly weary he was that he offered no protest. "Wake me if something happens," he said gruffly, already mostly asleep.

Athos nodded. "At the first signs of trouble," he promised, but Porthos's eyes were closed completely.

Athos looked to Aramis's peaceful face and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "You do know how to get yourself out of a tricky situation, don't you," he said gently, and Aramis sighed in his sleep. "I blame it on all the slaps you've had to duck away from because of your experiences with so many women."

Aramis didn't answer, but in the dark lighting from the candles, Athos imagined he saw a smile.

* * *

_So. Suspenseful enough for you lot? _

_TinkerBella7: I feel like they should just give d'Artagnan like a schedule with all of the missions and such that they're going to go on and perform, even if he's not in them. Like Treville devoting like four hours to just making a calendar of their missions for d'Artagnan like 'here, now don't make the mistake again' _

_Debbie: I definitely want to fit in a Treville/d'Artagnan bonding chapter in here somewhere..._

_The Phantom Dragon: thanks for all your reviews! _

_Guest: Wowza, first off: thank you so much! I'm glad you like these. Yes, there have been multiple suggestions for a kidnapped musketeer arc, which will be coming around the mountain soon enough...maybe. Just know that it'll be here at some point!_

_dogluvva9: will do! Thanks for the review._

_Shadow Writer33: Thank you so much! Your review made my day!_

_Guest: Wow, insistent! Here's your update :)_

_Thanks for reading, please leave me a comment on your thoughts and/or any suggestions you may have, and hope you enjoyed!_


	19. On Your Feet, Soldier

_Hey guys! So I know that I have to do Pt 2 of Shot in the Heart, but this one clung to me and wouldn't let go...I know, I know. Maybe next chapter. (Or...not. We'll see where the plot bunnies lead.)_

_Bearsrawesome, your time has come. I've taken my Treville/d'Artagnan bonding chapter and combined it with a suggestion you asked for a while back, so I hope you love this as much as I do because bro I love it so much :D_

* * *

Treville, despite his often intimidating appearance, was truly fond of all his musketeers (even the less favorable ones) in some way, else he would not have them under his captaincy. He didn't deny that he did approve of some more than others, particularly a certain four, but he hid this fondness well under his harsh command and stern glare, and had never once been addressed on his favoritism. He was a good warrior, an even better captain, and he was trusted amongst his musketeers in the garrison.

But sometimes…

Oh, sometimes, he wanted to throttle his men. _Particularly_ the certain four.

D'Artagnan in all technicality was not a musketeer yet, but those of Paris were coming to learn that where you could find Athos, Porthos and Aramis, you would find d'Artagnan alongside. Treville saw the way he followed them like a wayward son to fathers, like a lost youngest to a brother, like an omega wolf to pack. He held such promise, and Treville would never admit it to a soul, but he was routing for the young man.

Treville had known Alexandre d'Artagnan well, and the news of his untimely death had both shocked and devastated the Captain of the Guard. He and Alexandre had not only served together and thus formed an inseparable bond of brothers, but they had shared childhood adventures in Gascony as well, and he had gone to many dinners with Alexandre and his family. He'd even met d'Artagnan once, a long while ago- he had been perhaps around four, and was almost as wide eyed and hotheaded as he was now.

Alexandre and Treville had had such fun, regaling young Charles with stories of their shared exploits, both drawing such amusement from his boyish wonderment and awe. Treville would talk late on into the night to ease Charles's insatiable curiosity, telling him of his escapades and his musketeer's schemes.

D'Artagnan had already known certain moves, taught under the faithful guide of his father, using a blunt sword but nevertheless, since that day Treville had longed for the moment the young man would come to his garrison, ready and waiting for adventure. He wasn't sure if he expected the same wide eyed amazement as he had once been showered in, but either way, d'Artagnan did come storming into the garrison.

...Of course, it was because he believed Athos had murdered his father, bearing such terrible news, but he had come nevertheless.

Treville felt responsible for the lives of all his men (still haunted with such terrible memories of his forced hand in Savoy, remembering the echo of terror in Aramis's eyes, the sharp flashes of hurt that had come so recently) but his four were different. These were men who were irreplaceable, and not that he dared say it in the light of day, but he trusted them with his life and beyond.

D'Artagnan was, again, different. He was younger than most of Treville's men, and therefore scorned by the elder for loitering in the garrison he was technically not a part of yet. Treville was aware of this, but did not want to see overbearing (especially after his mistake with Henri, and not trusting his gut that the lad would not do such a thing for glory). The lad, though he looked like Alexandre, was his mother in spirit. He had her fiery temper and her fierce protectiveness, but her gentleness and softness of heart.

Sighing and rubbing at his eyes as he watched the antics of his Inseparables, he couldn't quite believe at this moment that he trusted these men with the lives and most important duties of France. The ceremony was boring, yes, and Louis meeting with a foreign ambassador was hardly exciting (but with all the excitement stirring around here lately Treville was astonished they didn't wish for more downtime) but _honestly_, were they children or were they musketeers?

Athos, at least, was standing tall, but he was quite obviously (or perhaps only obviously to those who knew him as well as Treville) trying to suppress a smirk. D'Artagnan was doing his best to stifle his giggles, and Porthos and Aramis...well. They were the troublemakers whenever this sort of thing happened; Treville was astounded he'd even suspected the other two in the first place.

Porthos and Aramis appeared to be bantering with each other subtly, a game of _who-can-make-the-other-lose-face-in-front-of-His-Majesty-first,_ whispering things and flirting out of the corner of their mouths. Seeing as (foolishly, so terribly foolishly) he'd decided that his most loyal, devoted and mature musketeers should be the ones to accompany him to such an important meeting, he didn't have any other musketeers setting a right example and he couldn't lean over and scold them, but they would get it later.

Oh. They'd get it later.

And suddenly there was a small yelp and d'Artagnan was careening to the side, flailing as he hit the ground, shaking his head as he blinked in surprise at his sudden position. Treville couldn't help the arch of his eyebrow as it happened, and thanking the good Lord that the ambassador was late, barked, "d'Artagnan! On your feet."

D'Artagnan nodded and scrambled to do as told, Louis looking on with furrowed brows (Treville could mistake for concern) and Anne looking politely confused. Then, just to spite the eager boy, he asked calmly, "what happened, d'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan's cheeks flushed rosy and he ducked his head, murmuring, "I-I fell over, Captain."

He couldn't help the curve of his lips as he barked, "try to stay upright in the future."

D'Artagnan nodded again, swallowing. "Yes Captain."

Treville stood straighter and watched from the corner of his eye as Louis turned to talk to the Cardinal about something, staring straight ahead and forcing himself to keep a straight face. "Lest we need to buy you new boots again."

The musketeer's snickers weren't remotely quiet, d'Artagnan's perhaps the least veiled, and all at once Treville was reminded why these four were his favorite.

"Looks like d'Artagnan was the first to lose your contest, Porthos," Athos said with a wry smirk, and d'Artagnan's head ducked further.

Aramis grinned as he slapped his friend on the back. "That's alright," Aramis said with a wink, "I'll be sure to humiliate Porthos worse, so the King will forget all about your clumsiness."

"Not if I do the same to you first," Porthos grinned wolfishly, and Aramis smirked.

"My dear Porthos, it's a matter of patience."

Athos found his voice again. "Like your patience when you're scrambling from the women you've slept with?"

They had such good hearts.

* * *

_Well now you see why I love this heeeee heeee_

_I also love how susceptive to laughter and tolerance when I write him too_

_Legoelf: Happy birthday! Glad I got it out in time :D_

_The Phantom Dragon: **shrinks back from maniac grin with timid quirk of lips** m-maybe?_

_Becimpala33: Thanks! Picked up on my subtle D'Art whump, didja? :) Thanks! I always look forward to your reviews!_

_CandyCakes: Thank you! Description is my favorite thing to write, I love imagery :D Me? Kill our boy? With the amazing hair and beautiful face? Never! Blasphemy! Thanks, I feel loads better today, you wouldn't believe what tea and sleep can accomplish..._

_Tidia: Are you the one who suggested d'Art learn a skill from the musketeers? If so, you're chapter may be next after the arc (or before, depends on the mood I'm in)._

_Jan: Here we go! d'Art/Treville! thanks a bunch for your review!_

_So. We passed 200 reviews. I just wanna say you're all so astounding and supportive, and I'm truly amazed everyday at all your feedback. So thanks :)_

_As always thanks for reading, please leave me a comment/suggestion on your thoughts, and I hope you enjoyed!_


	20. Shot in the Heart Pt II- Jump

_Alright guys, what you've all been waiting for...Shot in the Heart Pt 2. If I refer to it it'll be known as Jumper (since that's so much shorter) but it is Pt 2, so...here we go._

_OC in this chapter, but he's cool, so it's all good..._

* * *

He didn't know what had happened- one moment he was sitting calmly atop his horse, covering for d'Artagnan's antics and sharing smirks with Porthos and then…

Darkness. Pain. Flashes of light and sound and fire that he didn't understand.

Then...Floating.

Aramis gasped, his eyes flying open as he bolted into a sitting position. His chest heaved as he tried to control his breathing, his brows furrowing when he realized that...he wasn't actually taking in air.

Taking another deep breath, his chest and torso expanded, but still there was no inhale of air. He was far less disturbed by this than he thought he should be, and merely shrugged, standing and taking in his surroundings.

The room- well, he supposed it was a room, but beyond it was just pure white- was dark, aside from a fire roaring in the fireplace. There were books lining the walls in dark mahogany bookcases, and on the mantle of the fireplace were a few candles, all unlit. The floor was a dark forest green carpet, soft under Aramis's fingers, and there sat two comfortable crimson armchairs near the fireplace with a small mahogany end table between them.

It was cozy, if Aramis had to choose a word, and he shook his head and ran fingers through his hair, biting the inside of his cheek in thought.

"If it's answers you're looking for," Aramis jumped at the deep, rich baritone voice and spun around to see its owner, "then look no further, for I've arrived."

Aramis's brows furrowed as he reared back, his eyes widening as a skinless hand extended towards him in greeting. "_Mon dieu,"_ he whispered when he caught sight of the creature's face, and the creature gave a deep chuckle, making Aramis gulp.

"I go by many names," the being said agreeably, swiftly lowering his hand as if Aramis's rejection hadn't happened and striding towards the armchairs, "and you're the Guider, are you not?"

Aramis blinked himself out of his stupor and watched in trepidation as the creature waved his arm and two glasses full of whiskey appeared on the table, his brows furrowing as the creature picked one up and tipped it as if to drink. "N-no," he finally managed to stutter, canting his head, "b-but why are you drinking that, I mean you're just…?"

"A skeleton?" The creature finished, cocking his head to the side. Aramis got the sense that if the being had eyebrows, one would be raised. The creature tipped back his head and laughed, something deep and genuine, and Aramis permitted himself to calm down a little, despite not knowing where he was or why. "My friend," and the ease with which he spoke made Aramis exhale, "this is how you see me, assuming you are the Guider. Are you?"

Aramis shook his head. "How did I get here?" He asked, his brows creasing. "Who are you?"

The being hummed, his cloak hiding his bone face. He said, "come sit with me, friend, and all shall be explained."

Aramis watched warily as the being sat down in an armchair, flexing his phalanges as he curled them around the end of the armrests, and after a moment he followed suit, flinging himself into the other and sitting ramrod straight. The creature's shoulder bones shifted under the cloak in what appeared to be a sigh, but he said nothing.

"Now," he said conversationally, waving his arm again as his glass refilled, "as to where you are, only you can answer that. As to why, well, to put it quite bluntly," he paused for a sip, "you're dead."

Aramis's blood froze in his veins.

"I-I'm sorry, come again?" He asked, and his voice sounded hollow even to his own ears. The creature though seemed completely unconcerned, taking another sip.

"I said that you're dead," he answered, and the black places where his eyes should have been seemed to bare into Aramis's soul. "This is a fabrication of...your own creation, to say simply. To be completely honest your body isn't here; it's laying on a bed in an inn, still and lifeless. And I have come to collect it." He took another sip, gazing into his glass. "It's very good," he offered, his fingers twitching towards the end table and the other glass. "I implore you to have some."

Aramis clenched his jaw and eyed the drink. "No, thanks," he said cautiously, and the creature shrugged.

"Suit yourself."

Aramis took a deep breath, rubbing at his forehead. He could feel a headache pounding just behind his eyes. "I must be dreaming," he muttered. The creature scoffed, and Aramis looked to him curiously.

"If you knew how many times in my line of work I heard that same sentence, you would scarcely believe." There was a smile in his voice, but he had no lips.

Aramis smiled in a self-deprecating way, his guard still very high as he cleared his throat. "So if I'm...dead," he said, and thought that he was perhaps far too comfortable with the notion than he should have been, "and you've come to collect my body...why are we here? Is there an afterlife? Are you...the Lord?"

The creature shook his head, another maybe sigh causing his form to shift. "My, my," he murmured, "you mortals and your questions. I haven't had one quite so intuitive in a while though…" Clearing his own throat, the creature began, "well, to respond to the first statement, yes, you're most certainly dead, else I would not be here."

He paused. "As for the rest, we're here because I consider it unkind to just pluck someone out of their body and plant them somewhere Beyond, don't you? Manners mean things in the immortal world, you know." He took a deep breath, his ribs expanding under his cloak, and chuckled. "As for me being...God," and there was something wry in his voice, "I have been called by many names, but no, I'm not God."

Aramis canted his head, leaning forward in his seat. "Is there a God? How did I…" He fought past the lump that formed in his throat, "how did I...die? And what's your name? How do I address you? What's beyond?"

The creature shook his head and threw up his hands, pouring himself another drink. "Times like these I wish I could get intoxicated," he muttered, downing the glass in one go and turning to Aramis. "It's truly wonderful liquor," he said beseechingly, but Aramis shook his head again.

"Answer my questions," he said with narrowed eyes and the creature nodded.

"Now my friend, we've all the time in the world, so there's no need to rush," he said placatingly, snapping his fingers and reappearing in a dark navy uniform, causing Aramis to wet his lips nervously. He'd forgotten for a moment that this creature was powerful.

"My apologies," he said carefully, watching the creature's reaction. After a moment, he said again, "please, if you would be so kind as to answer my queries. And what did you mean by me being a Guider?"

The creature chuckled again. "You mortals with your incessant inquiries! Fine, fine, I shall answer. I'm not aware if there's a god or if there isn't one, and even if I did know I couldn't tell you. Where you go when you're Beyond depends entirely on what you believe of your faith and of yourself. I'm merely a collector of your soul, a sort of...gateway to the other side, if you understand. You? Well, look down and assess yourself. How _did_ you die?"

Aramis swallowed and peered down at himself, finding nothing amiss. His uniform, his crest...his weapons were missing, but he had a sense he didn't need them, where he was going...and…

A sharp pain in his left side made him cry out and double over, his eyes wide and his breathing stuttering for a moment before it disappeared as fast as it had come. He sat up, gasping for air, turning back to the creature. If Aramis could see the being's face, he imagined it was sympathetic.

"A pistol," he breathed, and the creature nodded slowly. "It was a bullet from a pistol."

"Yes," the creature agreed sadly, "and your terrible physician. Internal bleeding, tisk tisk. He needs a new profession, I think."

Aramis's brows furrowed. "And...you?"

The creature shook his head again. "Have I not told you that I go by many names? If I am not a god, and I have no real form- remember, this is a figment of your creation, this room and all that's in it, and thus so is my appearance. Perhaps this is more familiar to you?"

The creature's face seemed to shimmer, his bones twisting and snapping, his frame becoming bulkier, hair growing from his head and eyes forming in the sockets. Aramis's breath was stolen.

"This," he said softly, "this is...different." The creature flexed his bulky, muscular arms, felt the soft curls atop his head. Fingers traced along the jagged scar on his brow, and dragged on his upturned nose. Coffee brown eyes turned to Aramis, and Aramis found tears brimming in his eyes.

"Please," he whispered, staring into the face of Porthos, "anything but this. Not this. Please."

The creature in Porthos's skin shrugged visibly now. "So change me."

Aramis's tongue poked between his lips in concentration as he shut his eyes, imagining the creature as he was, dressed slightly different but altogether the same. The creature sighed in relief, his form shuddering slightly. "Skin is so...restricting," he said softly, and Aramis shook his head in disbelief.

"So...I guess I'll call you...well, you're Death, right?" The creature turned to him sharply in what Aramis assumed was surprise.

"No mortal aside from one other has managed to figure that out," he said quietly, and Aramis shrugged.

"I'm clever. Kill me," he said, and the creature laughed. "I'll just...call you Whiskey," he decided, and the creature hummed. "Yeah. Thomas Whiskey."

The creature hummed again, turning towards him. "Not that I don't like it, you may call me whatever you wish, but...why that? Of all the names I've ever received- and I've received quite a few- that's the most...original."

Aramis shrugged. "You like the liquor," he reminded.

"That I do," he agreed. "Now, I've come to notice that though I've answered all of your questions, you have not answered mine. Are you the Guider?"

"I would if I knew what you meant."

The creature's mouth opened and he said, "ah. I see. Well, there are four of you, are there not? You are one of the four. There's the Guider, the Traveler, the Greeter, and the Lifter. Since the Greeter is of darker skin tone, and the Lifter is a Gascon, and the Traveler has a beard, I supposed you were the Guider, but I have been wrong before."

"You've been wrong before?" Aramis asked, his eyebrows raising, and the creature tisked.

"I appreciate your faith, Guider, but yes, even I have been wrong."

Aramis sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "So...Porthos is the Greeter, which means...I guess it means he's the one we come home to."

Thomas Whiskey canted his head. "How do you mean?"

"Well," Aramis started, shifting in his chair to get more comfortable, "I know that he's always...I'm not comfortable unless I'm with him. Whether it be an inn, or the garrison, or my apartments. I'm used to feeling like home anywhere because of him, but when I'm alone it's...different."

He paused in thought. "D'Artagnan being the Lifter makes sense too. He's been the light of our lives, our saving grace. Pulled Athos from the edge of death because of his alcoholism when Porthos and I had no idea what to do."

"And Athos, well, he's been a lot of places in his life before he felt he could truly belong somewhere, and trust people. And with us, he's family. He trusts us. So he'd be the Traveler."

"And you? Why are you the Guider?" Thomas asked softly, and Aramis ran fingers through his hair.

"I guess it's because...I'm the one who's learned the least," he said quietly, his eyes flickering up to Thomas's face. "That's not to say I haven't learned anything at all, but...d'Artagnan was hotheaded and angry and grief stricken, and now...he's more pensive and thinks before he does. Porthos grew up in the Court of Miracles, and he had to relearn how to look at life like people weren't always out to take his head. And Athos…" he hesitated.

"Athos learned to trust again even when he didn't want to. Learned to pick himself up when he was down. And I, well, I've learned of brotherhood and friendship and love and life and that there's more to a family than blood. But I've not gone through any life changing discoveries like they have. So I guess I'm the Guider."

Thomas Whiskey stroked his skinless chin. "An interesting perspective," he said, "but not altogether correct. You see, you're the Guider because without you, the whole group falls apart. Without you, Aramis, they would be lost. You're the light."

"I don't understand," he admitted, and Tom sighed, taking another sip from his whiskey.

"You're a Guider because you make them smile," he said. "Youre a Guider because you laugh even when times seem most dire. You're a Guider because you're willing to do anything for your brothers, even if it means at the cost of your own life." He paused, "Do you remember who you were protecting, the day you were shot?"

Aramis's brows drew together, and Thomas tipped his glass towards the dead man. "The bullet wasn't meant for you," he said. "It was meant for the Greeter."

Aramis felt like the ground had just been yanked from under his feet. "W-what? _Porthos_? Why?! What could anyone ever have against him?!" He was cold, so cold he couldn't feel- he missed Porthos in death already, but he hoped his friend wouldn't join him too soon-

"I don't know," Thomas Whiskey said. "But you're dead because of it, because of the love you had so strong for one man. It would not have killed him. But you jumped anyway."

Aramis shrugged and said, "That's what brothers do for each other. They jump."

"Hm. In any case, you need to warn the Greeter. That's why you're here."

"I thought you said I was dead?"

"Oh, you are," Thomas Whiskey assured. "Just...temporarily. You see, you're...mostly dead. You're lying in a room, lifeless, surrounded by brothers praying to you, asking you to return. Can you hear them?"

Now that he was concentrating, yes, he could hear them. He heard d'Artagnan's hiccuping breaths, Porthos's long sobs, Athos's silent screaming in agony. He could hear it.

It was the most torturous sound he'd ever known.

"How do I return to them?" He asked frantically, launching from his chair and peering out a window into the vast whiteness. "How do I get back to them?"

Thomas Whiskey sighed. "I can't tell you," he said, swirling his drink around in his glass. "But I am entreating you, take a drink."

"I can't drink now, have you lost your mind?!" Aramis snarled, grabbing at his hair and gritting his teeth, reaching for a sword that wasn't there, "I have to get back to them! They are my brothers, and I cannot abandon them-"

"I've been saying from the beginning," Thomas Whiskey said calmly, "Take. A drink, Guider."

Aramis paused, turning to stare at Whiskey, who looked back with an unreadable aura about him. The musketeer narrowed his eyes. "Why do you want me to take a drink so badly?"

"I can't tell you," Whiskey repeated, swirling his drink some more. "And if I could, I certainly wouldn't be offering you such fine liquor and wasting it. Take a drink and make yourself comfortable. It's a bumpy ride."

Aramis took a stuttering breath. "How do I thank you?" He breathed, grabbing the other glass and raising it to his lips.

"Warn the Greeter," Thomas Whiskey responded, but he seemed melancholy. "And please, come back to visit. Not too soon, mind, but I expect you to return when you're good and ready." A pause as his skinless head turned to take in the room. "This is also a cozy set up," he remarked. "Different, again, than what I'm used to, but you seem to be the only other person able to make it so."

Aramis's eyes lighted with a smile. "I will," he promised, about to tip back the drink, but he hesitated again.

"What now?" Tom Whiskey said tiredly, and Aramis grinned.

"Sorry," he said, and Thomas Whiskey snorted.

"No you're not."

"No, I'm not," Aramis agreed, "but...who was that one other person?"

Thomas Whiskey shook his head. "Something I probably shouldn't tell you, mortal," he mused, "but you're quite remarkable. He was a Teacher, and his name was Alexandre d'Artagnan."

He was about to ask how and exclaim a million things and eagerly inquire, but the whiskey burned as it suddenly hit the back of his throat, and his eyes flew open as he sat up, meeting the gaunt faces of his companions.

* * *

_Disasteriffic Kaz: Thank you! It gets overwhelming at times (especially since it's one of my first times taking suggestions, and even then I never got any on this high a scale) but I'm doing my best and thank you so much for recognizing the effort :) What slacking? I see no slacking here... **whistling**_

_Becimpala33: I feel like Treville treats them like children because they are, but they're his children, and he's responsible for the lot of them...(I see a lot of myself in d'Artagnan, which is why I feel like he's the clumsiest and the youngest and oftentimes the dopiest...) I fall down a lot, just like that...no one pushed him or anything... (MEEEE TOO D'ART)_

_fantasydancer: Thank you! I love writing as Treville, he's so wry. He's just gonna literally stare at them gruffly and give them a really boring mission, or a deadline, because he knows they can't dally on deadline missions... XD_

_AllforOne: Brilliant idea! I love it! Whump to go around, look at you :D I'll have that up in a jiffy, I hope...sometime in the next century I suppose...but no, I'll put that above the other whump because that way it'll appease all you savag- I mean, lovely people... (Also, Aramis whump served on a platter for the next chapter and a half, so... yay!)_

_The Phantom Dragon: Challenge? I don't know what you mean. **Subtly arms self with weapons**_

_Tidia: Alright-y, thank you. I got quite a few asks about it and I forget who, and as much as I love all the reviews I'm not willing to dig through the twenty pages to find who asked it. Thanks, I feel like it's a game that's frequently played... (of course, Aramis will win, considering he'd, you know, slept with Anne, the King's wife, but...)_

_TinkerBella7: Well you know Aramis, he'd probably just sleep with someone and blame Porthos in front of the King..._

_bearsrawesome: Fulfilling a dream, huh? Thanks! I love making people randomly laugh places, it's like the light of my actual life though..._

_Legoelf: Treville, the great, fearless Treville, afraid of spiders...it's suiting, I'm not going to lie. Good idea, thanks for the ask and I'm glad you liked the chapter!_

_Well, that's that. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed, please leave me a comment or suggestion and sit tight for PT 3!_


	21. The Tricks of the Trade

_Hey look guys I'm not dead! I am so so sorry this is like, a gazillion years late (And not Pt 3!) but Pt 3 is underway and coming together, promise. In the meantime please enjoy Porthos and d'Artagnan bonding! This is for the [someone] who wanted the musketeers teaching d'Artagnan some stuff! So enjoy!_

* * *

"D'Artagnan lad, come here."

D'Artagnan wiped the sweat from his brow and panted out breaths, sheathing his sword as he walked towards Porthos, who was sitting at the table. He collapsed onto the bench and let his limbs go limp, tilting his head back so it rested on the tabletop. "I'm…" he gasped, "done."

Porthos gave a chuckle. "You've only been practicing for four hours."

"Four...hours...straight," d'Artagnan corrected breathlessly, sitting up and resting his elbows on his knees, "and...with...Athos...Not what I...call...enjoyment…"

"Liar," Porthos chuckled, and d'Artagnan conceded with a shrug and a grin, standing.

"What's up?" He asked, wiping his hands on his pants. "I'm hungry. Are we going out to dine tonight?"

Porthos nodded. "Yes you whelp, but that's not what I wanted to show you. Come on. We should take a walk."

D'Artagnan's eyebrows raised at Porthos's back as he stepped forward, but after a moment he shrugged and followed, trotting up so he was striding aside Porthos. "Where are we going?" He asked, and Porthos snorted.

"So many questions," he mused aloud, chuckling, "but you'll see. I think it's time you learned a useful trade for once."

D'Artagnan, brows furrowed but ever trusting, just frowned and followed his determined-to-be-cryptic friend along the streets of Paris.

Around a half an hour of walking later, Porthos finally paused in the entryway of an alley, peering around and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. D'Artagnan canted his head, his nose scrunching. "Porthos, what are we doing here, why have we walked here?"

Porthos smirked and clapped his young friend on the shoulder. "There's a lot you have to learn, kid," he said, and d'Artagnan frowned in dismay at the use of the word 'kid', "and amongst the important life lessons I'm going to be teaching you, this is one of them."

"Yes but Porthos," d'Artagnan said with an air of exasperation about him, "we just walked for half an hour. I was quiet, like you requested. Why are we here?!"

Porthos shook his head, a small little smile playing on his lips that only furthered d'Artagnan's frustration. "Look lad," Porthos said. "There are a few things in life that you have to know and don't, so I'm going to teach you. How to hustle; how to play cards properly because let me assure you, you've no idea what a poker face is; and how to pickpocket. Easiest is pocketing and it's the one I know best, so that's what we're starting with, considering it's much more impossible teaching someone how to act or how to control things like words or facial expressions."

D'Artagnan stared at him and Porthos scoffed. "Come now, don't give me that look."

"We're musketeers," d'Artagnan hissed; "we could be killed for this! Imagine if Treville found out-"

"And that's why he's not going to," Porthos interrupted smoothly. "Athos and Aramis are covering for us and our shifts, I've got a few members of the Court watching our back, and Aramis called in a few favors from some women saying they saw us nowhere near here. Relax, kid. We're fine."

D'Artagnan's mouth hung open. "Wai- Aramis and Athos are in on this too?!" He sputtered, and Porthos nodded.

"Well, yeah. How else could we walk out of the garrison so easily?" D'Artagnan shook his head, his eyes still wide, and Porthos gave him a look. "It doesn't matter, all right? Picking pockets is easy, and I'm not saying we have to steal from people. But say you somehow get captured, or one of us is, and you can sneak in or out by pick pocketing the _gardien des clés_ his key?"

D'Artagnan seemed to consider this for a few moments, comprehension dawning on his face. Porthos gave him a small smile. "You see? Helpful enough. Now here, we'll start easy."

He pulled some string out of his left pocket and unwound it so it was about nine inches long, holding it in front of d'Artagnan a few moments. Once the young man had nodded Porthos replaced the string into his pocket and stood still, facing away. Over his shoulder he told his brother, "if I so much as feel a gust of suspicious air, I turn around and you metaphorically lose your head."

D'Artagnan nodded his understanding again and edged timid, slightly trembling fingers to Porthos's pocket, reaching in-

the top of his hand was abruptly stinging with an ugly slapping sound as Porthos came down on it, and d'Artagnan hissed. Although it was not painful, it was a nice ache, and had him grimacing. "Porthos," he scowled, shaking out his hurting hand.

Porthos shrugged, lifting an eyebrow. "Don't let me catch you next time," he advised, turning back around.

D'Artagnan, grumbling, went for the string again, only to have his hand batted (not slapped this time, he noticed) away from the pocket with ease. Frowning in concentration as his tongue poked between his teeth, he did his best to move as stealthily as possible, but Porthos caught him again. And again. And again.

And again.

"Porthos, I can't," d'Artagnan admitted grudgingly, and Porthos turned around with a twinkling grin in his eyes. "What?!" He snapped, and Porthos laughed.

"Just," he said, wiping his eyes, "if you'd admitted that one of the first few slaps, you'd have just spared yourself a lot of stinging. The first step to being good at something is acknowledging that when you start out, you aren't good at all." He paused and let that sink in, d'Artagnan filling with a growing sense of horror. "You're a persistent bugger, I'll give you that."

"C'mon- Porthos!"

"Aw, don't be such a _mauviette_, d'Artagnan."

Before d'Artagnan could open his mouth to angrily argue, Porthos clapped his hands and began, "okay take the string, and stick it in your pocket and turn around. I'll tell you when I've taken it."

"Won't I feel it?" D'Artagnan asked as he did as told.

Porthos answered smugly a few moments later: "Got it!"

D'Artagnan whirled around and stared incredulously at Porthos, who was dangling the string in front of d'Artagnan's nose. "It's all in the feel, d'Artagnan," Porthos said. "Here, let me show you…"

So for the next two hours Porthos taught d'Artagnan how to successfully steal the string from his pocket, timid fingers becoming nimble under Porthos's guiding hands, and he learned how to take a few sous, some francs, and bigger things like fruit, though he was told that he was going to "sod it all to hell if you try to take that yet".

This ability to pickpocket did, in fact, come in handy after d'Artagnan and Porthos had met for a week and d'Artagnan had mastered it, often when he was kidnapped, trying to take anything from thieves (keys, jewels, and on one puzzling occasion some slimy half-liquid that met his fingers and ended up being candlewax) escaping the palace, or even at the garrison when he was hungry and he knew Aramis had some food stashed away somewhere in his coat. (Aramis was also very ticklish, d'Artagnan learned, and used this to his advantage also.)

And when he realized he could take from Porthos without him noticing? Well, that was just the butter on the bread.

(And if Porthos actually knew every single time d'Artagnan stuck his quick fingers into his pockets, well. He didn't say anything.)

* * *

_Alrighty well there it is, folks! Hope you enjoyed the little Porthos/d'Artagnan bonding session there. I think they're so adorable honestly :D_

_fantasydancer: Thank you so much! I appreciate it. Part 3 should be up soon!_

_The Phantom Dragon: A lot of people think that the Grim Reaper is like, terrible, but I think it's rather polite that he comes and escorts you to the other side. Imagine going alone?_

_Xdaisy Xchain: Thank you! I'm glad. _

_AllforOne: Hey! Thanks a bunch! I like that you guys know that I read your stuff and it makes my day every time I get another review! (The fact that you called him Thomas makes me grin like an idjit though wait thank you ahh) Thanks! Hope you enjoyed this one!_

_Becimpala33: thank you! didn't want death to be a boring character :D_

_CandyCakes: Thanks! I'm glad!_

_ajaali: Aramis whump. Ah. It's satisfying, isn't it?_

_bearsrawesome: No, you're absolutely on point! I KNOW! Thanks so much for your review!_

_Legoelf: Ah, Tommy. He's so fun to write ah I LOVE HIM_

_Tianne: Lol you make me smile! Too true, imagining his FACE...Oh man that'll be great. Of course! I love the idea! Of course the bunnies live in a burrow, how else do they get around so fast? Thanks again for all your reviews and I hope you enjoyed it._

As always thank you to everyone, please leave me a comment/suggestions and I hope you enjoyed! Ciao!


	22. Shot in the Heart Part III- Launch

_Hey everybody! I'm back and hey, guess what's here? N-no, no. Not Misha Collins. Guess again. NO-why would you even...? No, it's not fireworks in birthday cards either, but my people are on that. THERE! IT'S THE 3RD PART OF THE ARC! (You guys can't ever say I don't have personality :D)_

_This was asked for my Legoelf and Tianne, so here y'are guys: the last of the Aramis/shot arc. Hope you've enjoyed it and I hope you're satisfied with this ending!_

* * *

There was a stuttering, wheezing breath, a small expanse of his chest, trembling lips as he sighed in an exhale…

And then nothing.

"Aramis?" He asked timidly, his breath caught in his throat. "Aramis?" He clenched his arm around Aramis's shoulder, giving it a shake, his eyes filling too quickly with moisture he angrily blinked away. "ARAMIS!"

Porthos and d'Artagnan started awake, d'Artagnan falling from his chair and hissing as he hit the ground, Porthos coming to grab Aramis's face and hold it in his hands. "What happened Athos?!" He demanded, his face twisting as he watched his already pale friend, "what hap- d'Artagnan, fetch the physician _now_!"

There was a terrified intake of breath, the banging as the door was flung open, and d'Artagnan's pounding footsteps as he launched himself down the stairs, tumbling the last few and jumping to his feet, ignoring the ache in the limbs that had slammed against ground and wall in his haste.

He tore through the streets, tears flying from his face and streaming behind him, his boots slipping on the mud-slicked streets as the rain became torrential and he _couldn't see_ but he had to make it because Aramis, Aramis was in trouble and he wasn't going to die because d'Artagnan wasn't fast enough-

He burst through the door and _how in the world had he managed to find the physician's?_ He couldn't remember but it didn't matter; "Help!" He cried and the middle aged physician came around the corner; "Aram-Ar-Ara-Aramis ne-needs help you must come at once Monsieur _please_ he needs help!"

And the physician didn't hesitate as he grabbed his bag and abandoned whatever he'd been doing, even neglecting a jacket as he followed d'Artagnan through the downpour as the young musketeer scrambled through the streets and fell into the wet, runny mud, getting hands and feet and face dirty but just not caring, picking himself up and continuing. His perseverance impressed the physician and further spurred him faster, his lips pulling when he watched the younger man as he scraped knees and palms and cheeks in his hurry.

They finally arrived at the inn, d'Artagnan's breathing hysterical and short as he took the stairs five at a time, leaping up them and barely pausing to make sure the physician was following before bounding back into the room, hands flailing as he tripped and caught himself. Athos and Porthos didn't even look up, but Porthos's eyes flickered to his young friend as he stopped, eyes wide and face horror filled when he saw Aramis's still form.

Too still. Peacefully still.

The still of the deceased.

D'Artagnan's fingers and lips began to tremble as he reached out and grasped Aramis's hand, tears overflowing when it was limp and cold, face crumbling, and all at once Porthos roped d'Artagnan's slim form under his arm and pulled him flush against his body, his own hand pressed against Aramis's cheek. Cold. So cold.

Too cold. The cold of absence of pumping blood.

Athos did not cry, nor did his hands quake where they gripped Aramis's wrist, two fingers pressed to the inside as if he were tracking pulse. He was not. He stood motionless, his mouth dry and also his eyes, but he screamed inwardly, his eyes darting from Aramis to Porthos to d'Artagnan, and he swallowed the shout of agony building in his throat. He could not cry nor scream nor crumple, not in front of them, who were so broken already. He had to be strong.

Aramis was gone, but he would have asked Athos to be strong for them.

The physician was an awkward presence in the doorway, hovering but not overbearing, and Athos was not quite sure what he wanted to say to him. Porthos's shoulders jumped and he screwed up his face, taking a stuttering breath.

The physician walked slowly into the room, boots clacking loudly in the silent room, the rain pounding against the side of the inn as he pressed two fingers to Aramis's white neck. "There's nothing I can do," he said quietly, unnecessarily.

Athos swallowed the lump in his throat enough to strangle out a choked, "we know."

The physician nodded and looked at the candlemark, sighing and saying softly, "I'll go get you lot something to eat. You look like you could use it."

In all honesty d'Artagnan was turning rapidly green as he stared at Aramis's body, and Porthos was pale for a man of his skin tone, and Athos's stomach tossed warningly, but the physician left anyway and Athos figured that if it made him feel better, then he could go fetch something for them. Everyone coped one way or another, and the physician must have had quite the shock, his patient dying when he'd diagnosed his survival.

Survival.

Such a cruel and empty feeling word.

And he allowed himself to sag where he stood, throwing himself down upon the bed without losing his grip on Aramis's wrist, despair consuming him because he'd failed another little brother.

Sod this. Sod it all.

"Mon dieu," Athos breathed as he rubbed at his face, shutting his eyes. "Mon dieu."

And Porthos nor d'Artagnan seemed to feel they needed to respond, because both were as silent as death.

Meanwhile, a very confused Aramis gazed around at his mourning friends, blinking in astonishment and sitting up slowly. Other than a slight headache pounding just behind his eyes, he felt nothing of pain- in fact, a little nothing at all, in his opinion, and he looked down to find-

Himself?

Gasping, he threw himself out of bed and scrambled away from it, crawling along the floor on his hands, slipping and stumbling. There he was- he was cold and pale, his hand being clutched by d'Artagnan, his cheek being smoothed by Porthos, Athos's hand closed around his other wrist. But...wait. This wasn't right. Thomas Whiskey said he'd go back to warn Porthos about who was trying to kill him, and-

"What the hell is going on?!" Aramis shouted, all at once angry as he jumped to his feet, "Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan! I'm right here, right in front of you!" His hand reached out to Porthos's shoulder as he intended to shake it- "C'mon, can't you see-" and promptly passed right through, as if Porthos were made of air.

His eyes wide and brows creased, he swatted at d'Artagnan's head- nothing, just a vague almost shimmer as his hand passed through it, the faintest tremor of d'Artagnan's hair as the air brushed past it. Aramis cursed under his breath in French and jumped over the bed to Athos, doing the same, only to receive the same reaction.

"Well, this is wonderful," he grumbled quietly to himself. "Warn the Greeter, Guider, warn the Greeter; how the hell am I supposed to do that if he can't hear or see me?! _Fils de salope_," he cursed again, "this is far harder than I'd anticipated."

He walked beseechingly up to Athos, eyes wide and pleading. "Athos, it's me," he begged, "Aramis. Your _brother_. Your friend. You remember? Can you not hear me? Do you not sense me here?"

Athos didn't look up and Aramis groaned in frustration, tugging at his hair.

"How'm I even supposed to know what to look for? I mean, this is ridiculous! I can't warn Porthos, I can't just stay here and wait for something to happen and I have no way of...knowing…"

He trailed off, brows furrowed as he watched the physician move about the room handing out drinks full of what Aramis assumed was wine for the shock, but his gaze wasn't on the man's hands, it was on his waist, where there was a very strangely shaped instrument at his belt…

Looked almost like a pistol, when he thought about it…

The universe snapped abruptly into focus, and Aramis tripped over himself as he dove for Porthos, going right through him; growling, he dove again, landing with a hard sounding thud on the floor. "Come on!" He shouted, "you didn't even hear the thump?!"

There was no answer and Aramis pulled at his hair, letting out a strained, animalistic noise. "You can't die!" He screamed as he tried to pick up the water pitcher and passed right through it again, "_Mon dieu, you can't die!"_

He gave up and threw his jacket to the floor with a hoarse, incomprehensible yell, turning up to the ceiling and screaming, "Whiskey, you swore I'd return and the fact that you've done it wrong is actually astounding! How'm I supposed to warn him, huh?! What's that even-" his eyes caught the flicker of the flame on the candle and he fell silent, swallowing as a thought began to form in the back of his mind…

_What if…_

D'Artagnan's hair had tremored when he'd passed through it, and maybe his brothers couldn't see or hear him, but maybe the candle could. He'd make the flame dance a little to get their attention, then...What?

"Well," Aramis thought aloud, looking at his feet planted firmly on the ground, "well Tom, you've certainly given me a riddle, and there's no doubt about that. My feet are on the ground and I haven't fallen through the floor yet though, so that's something."

He examined the candle carefully, not daring to touch (lest he fall through it), but he observed it to see if it could somehow be of help to him. Man, if only he could somehow do something to it. He huffed in annoyance, and suddenly there was a flicker in the corner of his vision- snapping back to stare, the flame righted itself before glowing on its merry way. Narrowed eyes tracked its movements for a moment before Aramis blew again, and the candle swayed, and he beamed.

Sparing a glance at his friends, he screwed up his face and gathered as much air as he could into his lungs (which was strange, because he couldn't actually feel himself breathing) and pushed it from his cheeks with as much force as he could muster.

The flame disappeared, plunging the room into darkness, d'Artagnan's confused yelp and Porthos's startled yell the only indication his friends had notice.

Aramis, if possible, grinned wider.

He eyed the walls thoughtfully, then turned to the slightly misty window. If he could touch the floor all right…

He strode over the window, determination set on his face, the candle being re-lit bringing light back into the room aside from the sun just dawning on the horizon, only thin strips of faint green streaking the still dark sky. Summoning up both his courage and another breath, he breathed a slow, warm breath on the glass so it would fog, taking his finger and delicately pressing and-

there! His fingerprint!

Letting out a triumphant shout, he grinned excitedly at his three friends, who were none the wiser. "I'm coming back," he promised them, his eyes smiling, "and I'll warn you against that stupid physician, and everything will be-"

His grin fell as he saw what was over Porthos's shoulder, and his lips pulled up into a snarl.

He turned and, instead of writing what he'd intentioned, he wrote _PORTHOS, DUCK_

But Porthos didn't look up or turn from where he was still looking at Aramis's body (ugh, that was still creeping him out to be honest) and Aramis needed him, needed him to look up because by God Tom Whiskey had been adamant and he couldn't let his brother die, not like this-

He gathered up all his courage, all the strength and terror and anger and protectiveness he could muster and put it into one word, one unfailing, wailed word: _"TURN!"_

And Porthos, eyes wide, spun his head around and saw the writing on the window, and Aramis saw the moment of clarity, the moment that he understood; in a blink he'd thrown d'Artagnan to the ground and tackled Athos, flying over Aramis's body to get to him and landing with a thud on the ground and to Aramis's horror he began to rise, snarling, launching himself at the physician and Aramis was doused in sudden dread that sits like lead at the bottom of his stomach. _"PORTHOS! NO!"_

He screamed but it wasn't enough and his hand passed uselessly through Porthos's shoulder as he sprung, and there was the crack of a pistol and Aramis was stumbling backwards, thrown for some reason over his own two feet, and he was falling and flying and doomed-

Another crack, this time louder-

He mustered the strength to clamber up, ignoring the sudden white hot pain in his side and the spots in his vision as he growled and threw himself at Porthos's attacker, bringing them both to the ground as he wrestled the pistol from the man's grip. His face was twisted in loathing, his eyes pools of evil as he spat, "musketeers- you murdered my family!" Then he seemed to realize who he was grappling with and went completely limp, face white and eyes impossibly wide. "B-but it cannot- cannot be-"

He little choked sounds escaped his throat, the sounds that one makes when they cannot breathe, his eyes filling with tears that would not fall as he uttered a short cry and went completely lax. He was dead, killed from fright, surprise or disbelief; Aramis didn't know.

He wiped his bleeding nose on the back of his hand and stood, the adrenaline rushing from his blood as soon as it had filled it, the pain returning with an all too familiar feel. He turned and came face to face with his three companions, all staring at him with the same open mouthed amazed look, and he chuckled weakly, saying through a clogged nose, "well...I can explain."

And they broke into grins and embraced, and caught Aramis as he swayed and placed him in bed. Porthos brushed his bangs away from his face as Athos tucked the blanket securely around him, shaking his head all the while about stubborn Spaniards, d'Artagnan refusing to release his hand. "You're an idiot," d'Artagnan scolded with furrowed brows and pinched lips. "Is this what you feel like when I do stupid things? If so I am so, so sorry. Where...where did you go, anyway? Was it Heaven? What was it like?"

Aramis weakly laughed as Athos rewrapped his torso again, covering his wound. "You have no idea."

And somewhere in the world of spirits, Tom Whiskey smiled.

* * *

_Well, it's finally over. Yay for resolutions! Hope you liked it (it's actually my first ministory, so...) Tell me what you think!_

_Fariedragon: Me too, I betcha he'd be awesome at it..._

_Legoelf: I love their bonding time. I have a theory that Porthos is actually the most protective of them all b/c in the Court there was a chance everything you had could be taken away, so he keeps them close and watches over them._

_The Phantom Dragon: I wasn't trying to imply you didn't! I'm sorry if I came off that way :) Uh, the only thing I know of Bleach is a guy I call Flame Head to friends because he's got fiery orange spikey hair, but I have played Sims 2 and do watch Mr. Reaper take their souls after they drown. Not that- they drown on like- purpose, or anything..._

_TinkerBella7: I often feel they should teach things like this in school, a sort of Harry Potter D/A sort of class. Because if we're kidnapped and somehow get lost in, say, a foreign country, we're going to need to pickpocket and pick locks and things like that to stay safe. Thanks!_

_writinginmyjeans: Hi! Thanks so much for noticing! It's really sweet of you! Thank you so much! Made my day :D_

_ajaali: Is it because he's nice and patient teacher or because he's eye candy? (Either or is perfectly acceptable)_

_Becimpala33: I love these boys. They're characters, but I love 'em._

_fantasydancer: D'Artagnan is literally a little persistent SOB sometimes, I swear...I'd be impressed if it weren't for stupid reasons sometimes..._

_olakwiat19: Thank you! I hope you enjoyed the arc!_

_bearsrawesome: I KNOW THEY'RE SUCH CUTIES XXXXX THAT, THAT SHOULD HAPPEN- THAT COUNTS AS A SUGGESTION AND IT'S HAPPENING_

_CandyCakes: I know! I missed y'all! Thank you and I hope you enjoyed the arc!_

_Thank you for reading, please leave me a comment/suggestion on your thoughts, and hope you have an awesome day!_


	23. Working With Children

_Hey everybody! I know I've been gone a little while and man, have I had a really shitty week. From Sunday to like today has been cursed in ways I can't even fathom. Like what the hell? How do I even manage to get a hole in my pants on the front of my thigh AFTER I've left home and started my day? How does that even happen?!_

_Well okay, here it is! This was suggested by bearsrawesome who asked for, simply: BEES. Here we go. (Haha and "here we are, the next film in horror, compared to Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds", is BlackBandit's "The Bees". Viewer discretion is advised." (Not really...))_

* * *

"I think bothering you is just too much fun," Aramis said gleefully, taking another swipe at the back of his friend's head with his hat. Again.

D'Artagnan growled, and Athos glared at the two of them over his shoulder. "Enough. You two are like children, I swear."

"If we're like children, Athos," d'Artagnan asked guilelessly, "then what does that make you? Our mother?"

"You certainly fuss like one," Aramis agreed, causing d'Artagnan and Porthos to quietly snicker.

Athos rolled his eyes and made a rather derogatory hand gesture without looking back at them.

"I have a good idea," d'Artagnan whispered to Aramis, and Aramis grinned.

"So do I," he replied, a familiar twinkle in his eyes.

Grinning wolfishly at Athos's back, d'Artagnan steered his horse over to Treville's, asking with wide, innocent eyes, "Monsieur? Athos became annoyed with us, but we weren't doing anything, and made this gesture. What does it mean?"

Treville's mouth gaped for a moment before he had the good sense to close it, and d'Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos couldn't help the giggling as Treville gave Athos an earful of 'appropriate behavior'.

"You pulled out the puppy eyes, didn't you?" Porthos accused, and d'Artagnan made his eyes go watery.

"B-but why do you sound mad?"

"Oh, good Lord, spare us!" Aramis cried dramatically, clutching at his hair, sweeping his hat so it pressed against his heart. "What are we ever going to do against those dewy doe eyes?"

They all submitted to another bout of giggles, Aramis's smile abruptly falling as he gazed over d'Artagnan's head. D'Artagnan's own laughter fading and his smile dimming, he swallowed and looked up to find Treville's stern, glaring eyes focused on him.

D'Artagnan wasn't acting this time when his eyes went wide. "C-Captain?"

Treville smirked. "Don't mind what any of these musketeers do, d'Artagnan," he advised, his eyes cold but uncharacteristically mischievous. "Wouldn't want you to have to murder me with your pleading eyes again."

This time, it was d'Artagnan's mouth that hung open as Aramis, Porthos and Athos roared in laughter.

"That's enough!" Treville snapped. "Back to attention, all of you." Then he added under his breath: "It's like working with children."

They grinned at each other and stopped their squabbling, turning forwards in their seats again, watching the carriage a few feet ahead of them. Not that they didn't absolutely love all this, why did they, of all the musketeers, have to escort the spice trader to the border?

Oh, right. Bandits in the countryside. Always so much fun for them, these useless missions.

What was worse was that Treville had tagged along this time, snarling at them when they were preparing to leave the garrison: "The lot of you rapscallions will manage to get yourselves into some mischief or another, and God help me but I'm your babysit- yes, you too d'Artagnan; don't give me that look! I'm coming."

So. Here they were.

An hour passed in relative silence before the whining really began, because when the musketeers were uncomfortable...they were loud about it.

"I'm so bored," d'Artagnan grumbled. "And wet. And cold."

As it was, it was also raining, cold, fat drops dribbling down from the sky.

"What about your hat, d'Artagnan? I'm sure it's helping." Aramis had a suspicious sounding smile in his voice, and d'Artagnan scowled at him.

"My hat is soaked through Aramis, all because you refused to tell me what you used to keep it dry and warm as a coating. So you just shut your mouth."

"Ouch, that hurts," Aramis cried, clutching at his heart. "I'm wounded!" (He tended to have a flair for the dramatic when he was bored. (At least, more than usually.))

In reply d'Artagnan reached up, wet his fingertips in the brim of his hat, and flicked them at Aramis's face. Aramis flinched back in surprise at the cold but smiled good-naturedly, saying, "d'Artagnan, come now, there's no reason to-"

D'Artagnan paled suddenly, cutting Aramis off abruptly. "What is it?!" The Spaniard hissed, going completely still, and d'Artagnan gulped. "D'Artagnan, what is it?!"

"It's a-" d'Artagnan voice trembled, "It's a...It's a…" he paused, then said shrilly:_ "A bee!"_

D'Artagnan had discovered the other day that Aramis, the great Spaniard of the garrison, had a deathly fear of bees, but when he asked Porthos and Athos he was told to drop it. He couldn't find it in himself to just let something like that go, though, and he figured that as little brother he was required to poke fun at his elders, and truth be told Aramis was being a jackass right now and this was d'Artagnan's form of revenge.

Aramis's expression fell flat, and he looked entirely unamused. "Haha," he said tonelessly, "very funny. Why don't I mention to Constance that thing that happened in the tavern the other night, hm?"

D'Artagnan paled and for the first time all morning the rain began to patter to a stop, only dribbling drizzles just big enough to tickle on them now. "You wouldn't," he challenged, but the look on Aramis's face made him very sure that Aramis would.

"Try me," Aramis said, and d'Artagnan shook his head. Aramis smiled at him but it felt very wolfish.

"Uh," was d'Artagnan's eloquent response.

Miraculously, the sun was out, and Aramis grinned. "You see?" He said, spreading his arms, "there's no need to- ow!"

He drew back his hand, scowling, and d'Artagnan caught sight of a bee clinging to Aramis's sleeve. He began to laugh, and Aramis gave him a questioning look, but he was breathing heavily.

"Aramis," D'Artagnan informed with a smile, "you've just been stung by a bee."

Everything stopped.

It was like time had stopped for a moment, caught in the tick of a second where everything slows down, like it's trying to push itself through molasses and being unsuccessful until it's been completely released from it's hold.

And then all at once everything started again.

There was calm shouting and a flurry of organized activity as everyone moved about, shifting positions as Porthos gently pulled Aramis from his horse and propped him up against his chest, coaxing, "easy now, Aramis; easy. Breathe in for five seconds, breathe out for eight. You know the drill. I know you're alarmed, but just breathe with me, alright?" And Porthos began to exaggerate his breathing so it was easier for Aramis to follow, who was rapidly turning white.

Treville had gone for water from Aramis's pack and something of a container of ointment, returning and smearing a bit onto the bite on the top of Aramis's hand. Aramis was panting, his lips tinged blue, and d'Artagnan's concern spiked to worry.

"P-Porthos?"

_"Stay out of this_!" It was the first time Porthos had truly snarled at him and d'Artagnan was so shocked, he could only do as he was told and take a few steps backwards. In a second Porthos was back to his soft, gentle giant self, but it had been enough to slightly rattle the youngest musketeer, and he remained silent for a time.

Athos came running back onto the road (and d'Artagnan assumed he'd disappeared into the woods). He was cupping something in his hands- it looked like maple syrup- and he pulled Aramis's chin down so his mouth was open and dribbled some inside. Treville followed with the water, and Aramis's eyes rolled back into his head as they closed.

The trader could do nothing but look on with wide eyes.

After a few chilling moments of motionless quivering, Aramis took a deep, wheezy breath, and Porthos grinned as he jostled Aramis a bit in his eyes. Sluggishly Aramis's eyes re-opened and blearily drifted around until they landed on Porthos.

"P'thos?"

"Hey," he said, and cuffed Aramis lightly over the head. "You got yourself stung by a bee, you appearance-obsessed imbecile."

Aramis pursed his lips and began to sit up, but Porthos pulled him back.

"No you don't," he scolded lightly. "You know that shit takes a few minutes to really begin to work."

Aramis looked a little petulant and like he wanted to grumble, but he conceded.

D'Artagnan decided after another few moments of peace that it was safe, so he carefully questioned, "Porthos?" Again, and Porthos turned to glare at him.

"I can't believe you'd joke when we told you to drop it," he said in a slightly disbelieving (but highly aggravated) voice. "We told you to drop it-"

"Porthos," Athos reprimanded, and Porthos fell silent, his gaze falling back down to Aramis, who was laying in an exhausted heap in Porthos's arms.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said quietly, his face menacing but his eyes welcoming, "walk with me."

D'Artagnan nodded meekly and fell in step with his mentor.

They went from the road into the same side of the woods that Athos had gone down to get Aramis the syrup, the leaves crunching underfoot in silence. D'Artagnan wasn't sure what Athos was waiting for, because if there something Athos had to say, he'd say it loudly but he'd get right to the point. D'Artagnan had never known him to wait to deliver a punishment or a scolding.

The day had turned out beautifully once the rain had stopped, dewy rain clinging to every leaf in the forest, but d'Artagnan found he couldn't enjoy it. Though he wouldn't admit it, he was deeply shaken by what had happened with Aramis and felt that he was responsible for his teasing.

"D'Artagnan," Athos started a few minutes of peaceful walking later, "do you know what the word 'allergic' means?"

D'Artagnan seldom felt treated like a child, but it was now, mostly because of the lingering guilt from his blunder than the fact Athos was being patronizing or the fact that he didn't know.

"No," d'Artagnan answered after a beat, and Athos nodded as if he'd expected it.

"That's what I thought. Well, to be allergic to something is to have a...negative reaction to something that touches the skin or is ingested or generally anything that can affect you if you come in contact with it."

Athos paused and d'Artagnan wet his lips. "Aramis, for example, is allergic to bees. Porthos could be allergic to something, just as you're allergic to poison ivy. That's what Aramis said that night and meant by it- "Allergic reaction". Remember the cream he applied to your skin?"

D'Artagnan nodded, and Athos continued. "That's the same cream that Treville smeared on Aramis's bite. It helps the swelling that could happen and usually positively works to prevent whatever would happen as a reaction, but by the time we had gotten it out, Aramis's throat had already swelled too, which affected his breathing."

Another pause as Athos grabbed a stick from a nearby bush and began to break it into pieces. D'Artagnan still wasn't sure if he was in trouble. "So when Porthos snapped at you- even I heard and I winced- he was just frightened. Bees are common but very rarely is Aramis careless enough to get stung by one, so when you joke that there are bees around-"

"It makes him nervous and alarmed," D'Artagnan understood finally, comprehension dawning.

Athos nodded. "Quite right, d'Artagnan. The liquid I poured down his throat was the same thing the ointment was made of to help reaction but liquified so that it would go down Aramis's pipe easier."

His guilt doubled, d'Artagnan cast his eyes to the ground. "I'm sorry," he said, and was ashamed to find his voice very small. He felt, again, like a child.

Athos shook his head and ruffled his hair, causing d'Artagnan to bare his teeth at him in warning. He smiled. "It's all okay, d'Artagnan, and now you know. You won't do it again."  
D'Artagnan shook his head. "I swear," he promised, and Athos nodded.

"Right then." He paused and threw all the pieces he'd managed to break from the stick into the woods to the side, brushing off the little brimbles on his hands. "Right then," he repeated, "I think Porthos should be cooled off by now and Aramis up and about, so we should head back."

D'Artagnan obediently followed his mentor back through the foliage, feeling incredibly better. It was partially his fault, but he hadn't seen the bee that had stung Aramis and therefore probably couldn't have warned him anyway, and this fact made him feel slightly better.

As soon as they breached the woods into the clearing, Porthos was in front of d'Artagnan. "I'm sorry I snapped at you lad," he apologized, his eyes glinting with sincerity. "I was worried and annoyed, and I apologize."

D'Artagnan smiled. "That's alright. Considering what a little shit I am I probably deserved it. And I understand now," he addressed Aramis, who had his hat back on his head and so tipped it. "I won't do it anymore."

The four friends stood just grinning at each other for a minute or two before Treville finally barked: "Christ the Lord Almighty, no wonder you buggers are always late! Get back on your horses and quite being sentimental rapscallions!"

"Anything for you," Aramis said sweetly, and Treville swatted at his head.

"Hey!" D'Artagnan shouted indignantly, causing Treville to look at him. "Don't do that! He's delicate!"

Treville didn't respond, but there was a smirk on his face.

"Now now now d'Artagnan," Porthos said, "I wouldn't be so quick. Who here can't grow a beard?"

"Oh my God, is there no end," Treville murmured in astonished irritation, and Athos smiled.

"No. The lot of them are idiots."

"We're your idiots," Aramis said with a cheerful grin.

"Don't test me," Athos warned, and Aramis's grin fell.

"Me, test you?" He said, and although his face was blank his eyes danced. "Never, dearest Athos."

Needless to say, five minutes later, Athos found himself bested when Aramis and d'Artagnan- _like children_- had scooped up mud and thrown it on his back.

And again, it's needless to say that they had to stop for the night, a baffled spice trader and an aggravated Treville in tow because they'd abruptly gotten into a "who can make the others dirtier first" contest that Porthos won, claiming that the only need for a prize had been sated by the look of abhorrence on Aramis's face when the mud had gotten into his hair.

* * *

_There we go, everybody! Bees. Not really horror and more of a bromance/fluff chapter, but oh well._

_CandyCakes: I'm glad you liked how I mixed it up! I tried to be original and think I did pretty well._

_The Phantom Dragon: Sounds like a plan! And I've never heard of the movie Ghost, but asked my dad about it and he said that it did sound vaguely like my story, so maybe that's why? I dunno. I think you guys are overestimating how movie-savvy I am here...Literally Disney, BBC, and on occasion A&E and the CW (for SPN)..._

_AllforOne: That's okay! Thanks for the review! I'm SO HAPPY you loved them so much! I think d'Artagnan holds his friends on very high pedestals, like they stand for glory and honor and all things freaking holy and things like that that when he's reminded that they're actually mischievous little sons of bitches he's a little surprised. I'm glad I managed to keep you on the edge of your seat with the Aramis Arc and THANK YOU SO MUCH because I was a little worried about how I executed the change from body/soul/body. Hope you enjoyed the chap!_

_Legoelf: He just seems like Mr. Tough Guy, y'know? Like if I saw him on the street I wouldn't mess with him. (But then I'd learn that he's really a teddy bear and- oh look, there goes the Tough Guy image straight out the window...)_

_Becimpala33: Awesome, so glad!_

_LisaRosa: I PMed you but I also wanted to say welcome to the fandom and- **EVERYONE SAY HELLO TO LISAROSA SHE'S NEW HERE AND FOR GOD'S SAKE DON'T SCARE HER AWAY WE NEED EVERYONE WE CAN GET**- but no seriously we're a friendly bunch who love to whump people and torture them for fun, I'm sure you'll fit right in :D_

_ajaali: of course! I couldn't leave our boy hanging! (I know Aramis is a sweetheart)_

_fantasydancer: Well y'know although I'm not Misha I do have some Misha like qualities- you could all call me Overlord too if you like, I mean I wouldn't be apposed...(Bandit's just fine.) Thank you! D'Artagnan needed a bit of a wake-up call I think :)_

_Alright-y! Thanks for reading, please leave me a comment/suggestion, and I hope you enjoyed, you beautiful people you :) _


	24. So Done With This Week

_Hey everyone! Here's another chapter! Can I just say thank you all so much again for all your feedback- it's gotten me over fifty thousand views on this story, more than two hundred fifty REVIEWS, and more than a hundred follows and favorites. You're all so wonderful and it's been so amazing having such a great following as you guys._

_This was suggested by [someone], who wanted frustrated d'Artagnan (AKA how I've felt all week except for Friday). Also thanks for all of your sympathy and empathy, I really appreciate it. Enjoy!_

* * *

Okay, so it's been a long week.

D'Artagnan scowls at the ground as he walked towards the garrison, gritting his teeth and reminding himself that he absolutely cannot lose his temper today. It's only Thursday but it still feels like it's the very beginning of the week, and d'Artagnan is so done with his life right now he's even considering just launching himself from another second story window and just injuring himself so he has a reason to stay in bed and not see anyone.

Yeah. That bad.

He's been beaten, humiliated, yelled at, sent on errands, and gotten absolutely no credit all week by who else other than his older brothers?

Apparently d'Artagnan had forgotten about how his siblings treated him in the face of his friends' kindness, because holy Mary Mother of Jesus they've been jackasses all week.

All. Week.

And d'Artagnan is so done. And he has to cooperate today because most of yelling had been from Treville and Athos (And Aramis, and Porthos, and anyone else who saw it suiting to scream at him this week) and he found instead of scolded, he was angry.

So, so angry.

It wasn't even that it had been his fault this time. Aramis had sent him away the first day back to his apartments because, and he quotes: "I've forgotten my hat, and what sort of example am I setting for the new recruits if I've forgotten something?"

So, like a good friend, d'Artagnan had gone to fetch it and run into Constance, who hadn't let him get a word in edgewise as he was lectured on responsibility and _how could he possibly be cutting from the garrison and his duties and be letting his friends down?_

So after he's gotten an earful from Constance he decides it's better to just explain to Aramis what happened instead be later and risk Constance's wrath again, he returns to the garrison and gets shouted at Aramis for not actually having his hat and then Treville for being late.

And then, what's worse, he tried to defend himself against Aramis who was quickly backed by Porthos and then there's another huge speech from the two of them about responsibility, and d'Artagnan has to miss breakfast because of all this talking. Then Athos shows up and d'Artagnan thinks he may be on his side, but then he gets reproached for forgetting to eat, and later it comes up when he makes a mistake and Athos rebukes him again for not having enough energy.

This was pretty much everyday for the past week, and d'Artagnan's heart, which had formerly been heavy, now simmers and makes his blood boil. None of that had been his fault; it had all been coincidence and none of them were willing to listen, and even still, d'Artagnan once again feels estranged among his own.

Lost little d'Artagnan, only twenty years old, so he obviously doesn't know about responsibility yet; lost little d'Artagnan, he must not have much of an argument because he's young and the youthful do foolish things all the time; lost little d'Artagnan, it's a wonder that his older friends put up with his stubborn pigheadedness, because he thinks he can slack on his duties.

He was so done. With everyone.

So when he walks into the garrison and is immediately glared at by his Captain, his friends and had been glared at when he'd left the house this morning by Constance, he can't help it; the anger and the self righteousness and the hurt and the betrayal and above all the _indignation _just spill over, flare like fire, and he can't help it.

He screams. Loudly.

"What the hell do you all expect?! Poor d'Artagnan, he's only twenty and so of course he's going to screw up his duties; Poor d'Artagnan, lost a father and oh, he must be over that! It's always 'd'Artagnan do this' and 'd'Artagnan fetch that' and 'd'Artagnan, you've done this wrong' and 'd'Artagnan, you really should pay attention more'! Well let me tell you guys that I am paying so much attention and I'm being told so many different things at once that I don't know which way to turn!"

He pauses for breath, livid now that he's worked himself into his argument, infuriation spiking. "Does Aramis ever get yelled at?! No! Porthos?! No, of course not; what about Athos- well Athos, Athos can never do anything wrong in anyone's eyes and me?! Well I'm just me aren't I; I'm not really that important, a disposable recruit I suppose, and I guess I was an idiot to think I was anything different!"

Half the words coming out of his mouth aren't true and d'Artagnan knows it but he's just so mad, so irate and affronted that he can't control what's coming out of his mouth, and when he speaks next it's more of a hiss. "And guess what else? Constance is breathing down my neck too because I've been caught by her for running all of your errands that you're too lazy- it's not busy, it's lazy- to get up off your asses and do it because hey, you've got someone looking for approval at your beck and call. But I guess that's my mistake too, thinking I could actually trust the lot of you."

And he scoffs at his own idiocy, ignores that disbelieving, shocks looks that everyone in the garrison are sending him, ignores some of the older men's "well, I knew it; he'd bugger it up, and I told you all so" as he storms out, grinding his teeth so hard his jaw hurts.

He tells himself that it's their fault, because part of it is their fault, but he knows that another part is his too, because he didn't tell any of them about how he was feeling but he's a man, not a sap, and men don't seriously have heart to hearts about their emotions.

He doesn't actually know where he's going but on a whim decides that yeah, getting drunk it a really good idea right now, so he swerves into the nearest pub and orders a good glass of wine off of the barmaid, and although she's pretty he really doesn't want to pine right now.

She returns with his drink just as he hears the door jingle, and he shuts his eyes and resists the urge to put his head in his hands because he honestly, does not want to deal with his friends right now.

It's Aramis who sits across from his, and he scowls into his drink, but Aramis says nothing and silence reigns.

It's Aramis who first speaks, but d'Artagnan's in a mood, so it makes sense. "Look, d'Artagnan," he says, and although d'Artagnan feels a little guilty about his outburst, he didn't not mean it.

"Aramis," he intercedes, "I know that a lot of the stuff I said was wrong and some of it was right, but-"

"No, most of it was right," Aramis overlaps, and d'Artagnan is abruptly silent. "You're right about a lot of it. We were too lazy to get up and do things for ourselves and we did knowingly take advantage of you. You didn't deserve the brunt of our anger or our frustration or that treatment, and we were wrong to assume that you were fine after your father. It's only been a few months and you've lost a parent."

D'Artagnan tries very hard not to duck his head in shame. He'd been hoping they hadn't heard that part. "It's alright, d'Artagnan," Aramis assures quietly. "There's no shame in missing a parent." There's another pause. "And we're sorry."

And all of a sudden, d'Artagnan's anger has vanished, replaced with something pacified and warm and feeling justified. "Where are, er, the others?" He asks timidly, and Aramis smiles, jerking his head to the side, and d'Artagnan follows his gaze and oh look, there they are, and Athos tips his hat to him.

D'Artagnan sighs. "Sorry I was such a child," he mumbles, and Aramis chuckles and ruffles his hair.

"Sorry we were such gripes," he responds, and d'Artagnan laughs as they get up to join Athos and Porthos at the table.

"Sorry about that," d'Artagnan apologizes anyways, and Porthos blinks at him.

"You're scary when you're angry," he says and the table laughs, but d'Artagnan can't help but believe the undertone of seriousness in his voice and feels more justified than ever.

"That wasn't anger," d'Artagnan shrugs, "that was indignance." Then he bares his teeth. "I can't wait for you to see me when I'm angry though."

And the looks of horror on their faces is completely worth the head slap he receives.

* * *

_Becimpala33: Thank you! I always try to make Treville a really hardass character and then he wants to just go and be witty and sassy and all these things and I just let him now because hell if I can stop him._

_LisaRosa: thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed :) Well that's a relief! Robin of Sherwood, is that the one with Kevin Costner? I have no idea, you just throw in some eye candy and boom! I'm game :D_

_Sarah: Thank you! Ooh, conflict! But I'm glad you enjoyed._

_CandyCakes: Thank you! Treville is just one of those characters where I'm like: __Me: Treville, you're not in this chapter. You can't be._

_Treville: I'm in this chapter._

_Me: NO, Treville, you can't be-okay fine, stop looking at me like that jeez. XD_

_AllforOne: You might have but I'll never get tired of hearing it! Thank you! I felt like Porthos needed a moment to really show his "Don't mess with me" side, just like d'Artagnan in this chapter. And yes, my week did get progressively better, thank you so much for the empathy :) I'm sorry to hear about long classes though. Did you at least sleep?_

_Legoelf: Y'know, what you said has made me realize that it sort of has, and that it so incredibly humbling and praising and oh, you guys are awesome :) Thanks!_

_Debbie: Lol, that was really subtle. Alright, alright. Next few chapters then. Must feed wolves so they don't devour me. :)_

_Valkyria Raven: Y'know your name is awesome, first off, and I don't know if you've ever heard of Skulduggery Pleasant but it sounds like a character from that and it's amazing :D First, welcome to Little Brothers, I don't think I've seen your penname around here, if I'm wrong, then...welcome anyway! I love the suggestion and I will have it done ASAP! (Must warn you, about 40 suggestions on my rec list, so it could be a while but it will be done.)_

_fantasydancer: I know! Treville is an amazing character to work with and wouldn't leave me alone, he wanted to be in the chapter so bad, so I had to just give up and let him. thanks for the review!_

_bearsrawesome: I wholeheartedly agree!_

_ajaali: AHHHHHHHHHHH YOU FLATTERER YOU THAT MADE MY WHOLE WEEK SO MUCH BRIGHTER!_

_Tianne: Ugh, I hate the lurgy. I'm so sorry to hear it but I'm glad it made you feel better! Thank you, I was nervous about it. HOLY CRAP 400? THAT'S HORRIBLE! I'm so glad he wasn't allergic, holy moly! Oh my God, your poor aunt! I'm so glad she's alright! I'm luckily only pestered by seasonal allergies, but my father's allergic to so many things it's sort of incredible. I know, poor d'Art! But I feel like he got back for it in this chapter :D_

_Boooyakasha: Hello there! Welcome to the story! I like virtual brownies... :) I'm glad you've enjoyed these past chapters and I hope you enjoyed this one just as much!_

_Alright-y everybody! Thanks again so much for all the feedback, you're all beautiful and should feel awesome about yourselves! Thanks for reading, please leave me a comment/suggestion, and I hope you enjoyed!_


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